The Rise of the Pale Dragon
by chicaalterego
Summary: Escaping from Gringotts on top of a severely hurt dragon, holding the sword of Godric Gryffindor and the cup of Helga Huflepuff-turned-Horcrux was the craziest thing Harry ever did... until two minutes later he found himself being thrown by the goblin wards into a world that was on the verge of being conquered by an army of ice zombies.
1. Gringotts' Prisoner

**Disclaimer:** Don't Own. Don't care. Writing this for free.

 **Summary:** Escaping from Gringotts, on top of a severely hurt dragon, holding the sword of Godric Gryffindor and the cup of Helga Hufflepuff-turned-Horcrux was the craziest thing Harry ever did... until two minutes later he found himself being thrown by the gobbling wards into a world that was on the verge of being conquered by an army of ice zombies.

 **AN:** In case anyone forgot about the events on book 7; Harry rescued not only Dobby, Luna and Olivander from Malfoy manor: he rescued Griphook. The golden trio got Bellatrix wand during that event, and well... let's say that I tried to keep this chapter as close as chapter 26 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows as I could. Which means, this has many things that come literal from there, but there are a lot of elements that I used to slowly build the transition from cannon to this AU.

You can read both and compare, but the two major changes are that Harry was the only one to go down with Griphook... and that he is going to end on the GoT universe.

Also, expect slow updates on this (as in the speed of a tortoise crawling backwards inside a tar pit), which will surprise none of my regular readers.

 _Chapter Updated on: 30-10-2016. Betaed by: ddzhalev_

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 _'Right,' said Harry. 'Well, I need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to me. The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but continued to frown at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him. 'I need to break into a Gringotts vault?'_

Harry Potter to Griphook after the rescue in Malfoy Manor.

Chapter 1. Gringotts' Prisoners

Their plans were made, their preparations complete; in the smallest bedroom a single long, coarse black hair (plucked from the sweater Hermione had been wearing at Malfoy Manor when Bellatrix Lestrange got Crucio-happy with her) lay curled in a small glass phial on the mantelpiece.

"And you will be using her wand, Harry," Hermione said, handing Harry the walnut wand that put an end to his Godfather's life and turned Nerville's parents into vegetables. Harry restrained the brutal urge to snap the wand, then cut it in half with the sword of Gryffindor (carefully tucked into Hermione's bottomless bead bag, which was strapped to his calf) then destroy the remains of Bellatrix' wand with a well placed Incendio. "With the Polyjuice at work and carrying her wand, you should be able to convince the goblins that you are her... Harry, are you listening? You need the wand. You can burn it in a pyre when this is over if you want."

Harry would hold Hermione to that promise. As soon as they had the Cup of Hufflepuff he would make sure that that woman's wand would never destroy another life. Harry looked forlornly at Malfoy's old hawthorn wand, he never thought he would miss the darned thing.

The bedroom door opened and Griphook entered. Harry's hand unconsciously moved to his calf, right over where the Sword of Griffindor was hidden from sight, but he regretted the action as soon as the goblin gave him a calculating look. Griphook now knew where the sword was hidden. Seeking to gloss over the sticky moment Harry said "We have been just checking last-minute stuff, Griphook. We've told Bill and Fleur we're leaving tomorrow, and we've told them not to get up to see us off."

Hermione had been firm on this point. She didn't want them to see her glamouring herself and Ron, as not to get recognized while they traveled around Diagon Alley. There was also the issue of not bumping into Harry's invisible form, for he would be hidden under his cloak all the way to Gringotts' nearest dark alley so he could turn into Bellatrix. The plan from there was pretty straight-forward. Harry would go in by himself as Bellatirx with an invisible Griphook while Hermione and Ron would stay in the lobby of the bank and make sure to knock out as many goblins as possible if Harry got caught (since they had learnt from Bill that the goblins rarely strayed into the caves when the day was young and business plentiful, so they could stall them from there). Hermione and Ron would also make sure that no Death Eaters would ambush their friend... not while Harry was unaware at the very least; after all, Hermione still had a few of her enchanted galleons from the DA, and she would warn him if things went south.

Griphook went ahead first, as Goblins were neutral and thus didn't need to fear the horrors of Voldemort's forces (not yet anyway), then, half an hour later, the three wizards took their leave. The travel from Bill and Fleur's place, to the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley went without any issues. Albeit, Harry had to admit that the wonder he usually felt when traveling the street that once welcomed him to the wizard world was gone. The place was not completely deserted, though no longer were people dressed in colorful robes, chatting idly and moving around happily. The look of the empty broom-shop window made Harry's heart pang especially painfully since his mind conjured the image of bubbly children gushing about the latest race broom in front of the broken glass of the half-burnt shop.

From the look of Ron's face, Harry could see that his best friend agreed with the sentiment, though it had nothing on the look of dismay on Hermione's face when they passed by the ruins of Flourish and Blotts. War had clearly taken it's toll on the heart of magical Britain. All the buildings apart from Gringotts, in its marble glory, had become mere shadows of what they were before Dumbledore's death.

Harry and company went into a dark alley only a block away from the bank and Harry downed the Polyjuice potion with a distinctive lack of gusto from underneath his cloak. The odd and somewhat painful process didn't get any better from the last time Harry drank the potion; fortunately, this time he was mentally prepared for the taste of rancid toilet, which made it possible for him not to hurl at his fiend's feet. "Urgh, at least it tastes better than Goyle." Harry's grimace was particularly bizarre coming from Bellatrix's floating face. Or, what looked like her floating head to the other two Gryffindors after Harry had removed the top part of his cloak. Ron made a face while Hermione took out Malfoy's old wand and pointed it at Harry. She looked sheepishly at him as soon as her mind caught up with her actions and offered him an apology to his (her?) face.

That done, his two friends stepped out of the alley, looking as casual as possible while Harry dressed in one of Fleur's cloaks/dresses that they had 'borrowed' for the occasion, and put his tattered blue jeans, too big shirt, shoes and his now unnecessary glasses into Hermione's bead bag, which the witch had insisted he carry.

"Remind me again how you convinced me to rob a bank in a dress?" Harry asked Hermione rhetorically. Ron snorted at the question.

Before Hermione could come up with a clever quip, Griphook peered into the alley with an impatient look. Not wasting any time, Harry covered the goblin with his father's old invisibility cloak, then started walking ahead doing his best arrogant madwoman impersonation. Hermione and Ron, on the other hand, followed at a safe distance looking as lifeless as the other wizards walking around the depressing street.

Much sooner than Harry would have liked they arrived the goblin bank. "Merlin help us all," Harry mumbled before taking a step to climb the marble stair leading to the bronze door next to which Gringotts' famous motto was engraved on a gold plate. Two human guards stood by the door in question where goblins usually stood, which made it possible for an alert Ron and Hermione to each cast a Confundo on a guard to stop them from reacting when the probes let the people on patrol know that someone had just tried to enter Gringotts under concealment.

As soon as that hurdle was over, Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Immediately after he regained control of his acting, he put his best sneer on his newly-acquired female face and, while he was sure he didn't look as mad as Lestrange did at the Department of Mysteries, he was convincing enough that the wizards lining up to make withdrawals moved away from Harry's path in a panicked rush. The goblin on Harry's chosen high stool, a very old goblin with 'Bogrod' written on his nameplate, peered down at Bellatrix' form from over his oval-shaped glasses and Harry felt cold sweat on the back of "his" long-haired neck.

"How might I help you, Mrs. Lestrange?" The goblin asked, not looking up from a gold coin he was inspecting with interest. Harry couldn't help but feel that something was off. Keeping a cool head, Harry demanded to be lead to the Black family vault. The goblin rose an eyebrow "You have... identification?". There was a moment in which Harry almost handed the goblin Bella's wand... until he came to the bright realization that Bellatrix would never obey the request of the being in front of him. The mere fact that he got asked for proof of who "she" was, couldn't mean anything good. Harry blanched and his eyes widened; thankfully, with Bellatrix unusually big eyes, Harry looked a lot more disturbing than afraid. Harry's worries were confirmed when Griphook, hidden under the invisible cloak, murmured "They suspect, they must have been warned that an impostor would be coming". A flinch came to Harry, but this was not an unusual action from Bellatrix whose body so frequently gave little flinches and spasms because of her long stay in Azkaban.

'In for a penny, in for a pound,' Harry thought before using that mocking sing-song voice that still haunted him in his sleep. "Seems like this foolish little beast is doubting little old me," Harry's neck tilted disturbingly, "should I prove I am who I say I am, hmm?"

The goblin, who had been dismissive so far, stiffened in fear. "Of course not, Madam Lestrange. I will be most... pleased to take you to your vault!"

"How disappointing," Harry said spooking even himself, "And I thought this was a chance to... get to know each other better?" The cooing baby voice that came out of Harry's throat was the stuff of nightmares, and he would be sure to ask Hermione to Obliviate the memory out of his skull.

The understandably intimidated goblin jumped to action, personally getting himself down from his stool and bowing before he motioned for Harry to follow him with one of his long, clawed fingers. Crisis averted for the time being, Harry stood a little bit straighter, feeling pride in his success... something that was very short-lived. The goblin called the cart with a whistle then, after getting into the cart, Harry's manners got the better of him when he thanked the goblin, effectively blowing his cover.

Without hesitation, Harry raised Bellatrix's wand and shot the goblin a well-aimed Imperio. The words felt foreign and the magic dirty, but at least the wand didn't oppose him upon the use of a familiar dark spell. The goblin's eyes grew foggy and Harry calmed somewhat. That had been a close call. Griphook removed the invisibility cloak (which Harry suspected had mopped the floor due the goblin's small size) now that the only witness was Imperiused. "Don't hesitate, we need Bogrod to control the cart; I no longer have the authority." Harry nodded, mentally apologizing to the goblin Bogrod; this needed to be done, HARRY needed to do this to put an end to Voldemort's reign of terror. Harry gave another nod, this one physical, towards Griphook who hid under the invisibility cloak again then the two of them got into the cart.

With a jerk, the cart moved off, gathering speed: they went from the relatively decorated entrance to the deep darkness of the mines then the cart began twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downwards all of the time. Harry could not hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the tracks, unfamiliar black curls flying behind him, tangling themselves into a frazzled mess as they swerved between stalactites, and Harry had the distinct impression that Bellatrix Crucio-ed the goblins every time she visited her vault because of how the trip made her already disastrous hair ten time worse. The cart continued going deeper and deeper into the earth and Harry couldn't help but glance back, wondering pessimistically if he would ever get out.

They were deeper than Harry had ever penetrated within Gringotts; they took a hairpin bend at speed and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track. Harry heard Griphook shout "No!" but there was no breaking: they zoomed through it. Water filled Harry's eyes and mouth, he could not see or breathe and got the oddest feeling of his head getting lighter; then, with an awful lurch, the cart flipped over and they were all thrown out of it. Harry heard the cart smash against the passage wall and felt himself glide back towards the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly into the rocky passage floor.

When the shock over what just happened was over, he noticed he was having trouble seeing and wondered for one frightening moment if the guards had done something to his eyes. His hands moved to his face out of instinct and his palms pressed against familiar cheekbones and a bit of stubble. Suddenly, Harry remembered that time when his body reverted from being Gregory Goyle, his eyes worsening as the potion's time was over. Harry was now back to looking as himself and the dress he was wearing was stifling at the waist while there was a bagginess in the chest area.

"The thief's downfall!" said a half-visible Griphook, the invisibility cloak pooling at his feet as it dangled off the goblin's right shoulder. Clambering to his feet and, looking back at the deluge on to the tracks which Harry knew, now, had been more than water, the goblin elaborated on his previous exclamation, "It washes away all enchantments and magical concealments! They know there are impostors in Gringotts, they have a set off the defenses against us!"

Frustrated, Harry leaned downwards a bit, hand reaching towards the bead bag to retrieve his glasses, when he saw a blur of movement. Trusting his instincts, Harry let out a Petrificus Totalus, and saw the small figure stiffen and fall. That done, Harry took the bead bag from around his calf and Accio-ed his glasses. Now able to see, he realized that Bogrod was petrified on the floor. Which meant that the waterfall of not-water must have lifted the Imperius curse.

"We need him," said Griphook, "we cannot enter the vault without a Gringotts goblin. And we need the Clankers!" Harry used the Imperio for a second time, the wand eagerly channeling the dark magic once again. Soon enough, Harry and the two goblins were in the cart again; a minute later, they turned a corner and saw the thing which Harry had known helped defend Gringotts' vaults since he was 11 and Hagrid whispered to him about the beasts that lurked in the depths of the more secure vaults of the goblin bank.

The cart came to a halt. A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast's scales had turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground; it's eyes a milky pink, both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. It's great, spiked wings, which would have filled the chamber if it spread them, folded close to its body. When it turned its ugly head towards them, it roared with a noise that made the rock tremble, opened its mouth and spat a jet of fire that sent them running back up the passageway.

"It is partially blind," panted Griphook, "but even more savage for that. However, we have means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the Clankers come. Give them to me." Harry followed Griphook's finger to a small bag tied to the cart, he handled it to the goblin, who pulled out a number of small metal instruments that, when shaken, made a loud, ringing noise, like miniature hammers on anvils. "It will expect pain when it hears the noise; it will retreat. As soon as it does, get Bogrod to put his hand on the door of the vault.

They advanced around the corner again, shaking the Clankers, and the noise echoed off the rocky walls, grossly magnified, so that the inside of Harry's skull seemed to vibrate with the din. The dragon let out another hoarse roar, then retreated. Harry could see it trembling. Harry had the desire to get out of the cart and try to assure the dragon that it was in no danger from them. He would be barmy if he did, though, but that thought didn't help when he saw the slashes across its face and the blood-tinted scales near them. The dragon was a victim, a prisoner who had been continuously abused for so long...

Hermione would have thought the treatment it had suffered barbaric, of that Harry had no doubt. He also had no doubt that, if Hermione decided to championship guardian dragons, Harry would be the first one to join despite the horrid acronym his beloved friend was sure to come up with.

"Make him press his hand to the door!" Griphook urged Harry, who had been too focused on the dragon to remember that time was of the essence. Harry made the goblin do as Griphook had asked and the door of the vault melted away to reveal a cave-like opening, crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor and the skins of strange creatures he couldn't recognize from outside the vault. The feeling of black magic and dread was wafting from the vault and Harry hesitated to get in right away. Maybe if he had been with Ron and Hermione down there he would have jumped in, but, as it was, he would have no one to watch his back in there. There was also the fact that the wand of Bellatrix felt wrong in his hand: he couldn't say if the wand would betray him if it sensed he was going to do something detrimental to its former mistress or something, so Harry wasn't eager to rely on it.

After a moment's deliberation during which Griphook continued to yell to him to "Get in! Search! Fast!", Harry lifted the hem of his dress (and how odd was it that he was doing a bank robbery in drag?), then opened the bead bag on his calf, retrieving Gryffindor's Sword from its endless depth.

It all spiraled downwards from there: before Harry could step in to search for the Horcrux, an unidentified object jumped towards Harry's hand. Seeker reflexes kicked in, and Harry spiraled out of the way of the incoming projectile as though it was a particularly vicious Bludger. "What?" Harry asked when he realized it had been Griphook who had hurled himself towards him. That moment of surprise was all the goblin needed to launch a second attack, magic propelling him from the ground and long, spidery fingers dug into the skin of Harry's sword-wielding hand. Harry yelped in pain and let go of the goblin-crafted weapon.

Several realizations hit Harry at the same time: Griphook had suggested he used Bellatrix' wand to be let in when Death Eaters had known it had been stolen; Griphook hadn't seemed surprised about the Thief's Downfall; Griphook had been so proud once upon a time when he was a worker of Gringotts that there was no way the goblin would help a wizard sully the place with the disgrace of a robbery. Bill's words from the day before echoed ominously in Harry's head 'All I am saying is to be very careful what you promise goblins, Harry. It would be less dangerous to break into Gringotts than to renege on a promise to a goblin.' And hadn't Harry been thinking on ways to keep the sword after this was over? Sure, Harry would have kept his word, but he wasn't happy with it, and maybe the goblin had sensed it... or maybe it was because so many wizards had broken promises to goblins.

One way or another, Harry was not going to give up here. The wizard launched himself towards the goblin in very much the same manner the long-fingered magical creature had; the difference of weight and height meant that Harry pretty much squashed the creature with his body. The goblin shrieked in outrage and Harry found himself hitting the wall. Wand-less magic, that's what the goblin had done. Then, much to Harry's horror, the goblin was swinging the sword towards his chest. Harry rolled on the floor, the sword clanked, bouncing off the floor harmlessly. The goblin let an expletive as the sword scraped his big nose, leaving it with a thin, bloody scar on the left side.

Harry got up from the ground when the goblin swung towards his chest again. Harry managed to dodge it, but he stepped on the hem of the now tattered dress he was wearing and fell to the ground. His glasses fell to the ground and he was struggling to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. A glowy something came towards Harry and he jumped out of the way of what he assumed to be a spell. Harry fell again, almost colliding with the vacant-eyed Bogord who stood stupidly waiting for his next order. The sword was swung towards Harry and he was unable to move in time... only, it hit his chest sideways doing no more damage than a clumsy punch to the lungs.

Sure he was about to die because of his bad sight, Harry wished for his glasses with so much strength that they almost poked his right eye out of its socket when they answered his calling. He put them on, seeing better with one working eye and glasses than he had with his two eyes bare. Truth be told, a follow up should have come long before Harry could call for his glasses: hell, the previous attack from the goblin should have been the end of it! But it wasn't Harry who met his end because of the ancient sword. Instead, the goblin Griphook now laid dead on the floor of Gringotts.

It took a minute for Harry to realize what had happened, the sword had been bathed with basilisk venom, thus becoming poisonous. Harry, on the other hand, had not gotten the blade to touch his blood. He had been very lucky, ridiculously so, and Harry would have felt bad about indirectly killing the goblin if not for the fact that the creature had tried to kill him, despite Harry saving his life not too long ago. Maybe, Harry reasoned, magic had made sure that the goblin could not harm the one he owed a life debt to... or Harry finally got the universe to grant him a moment of dumb luck. He was willing to wager on the first.

Harry would have to dwell on the matter at a later time, after the Horcrux was destroyed and he was no longer in the deepest bowels of Gringotts.

Harry moved to pick up the sword of Gryffindor from the lifeless fingers of the goblin that convince him to come here. Now warier of the species than he had been five minutes ago, he decided to take Bogrod with him into the vault, if only so the goblin would always be in his line of sight.

Harry had to look for a cup he had never seen before, inside a vault deeply underground that was filled with potentially cursed objects, all the while been accompanied by a goblin he himself had imperius-ed... Harry was wondering how many turns for the worse this could take when the door of the vault reappeared... of course, that was when the enchanted Galleon heated up to let him known he had been discovered. "Bloody fantastic," Harry grumbled, throwing his hands upwards. One of his hands hit a pile of objects that were badly illuminated by the torches inside the chamber; as soon as it did, he could feel a burn forming on his wrist. He turned to look, and noticed how one of the many cups in the vault (not the most flashy, but still an obviously old, jeweled one) was multiplying... and he had not seen which one was the first of the pile.

Now Harry had no idea what spell had made this happen, but he was pretty sure the original one must have been either the Horcrux he was looking for, or a cursed object that coincidentally had been a cup. One way or another, there was no harm in destroying it. Mind made up, Harry stabbed jeweled cup after jeweled cup, until the tell-tale black smoke of a Horcrux rose from one of them.

Riddle's diary, the Gaunt ring, Slytherin's locket, and now the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff: four Horcruxes down, two to go. Harry put the end of the sword on the floor, then deliberately stomped on the cup to free it from the sword. Thankfully it didn't multiply again (or burn his foot), and he breezily made his way to Bogrod whom Harry asked to make the door vanish again. It did as soon as the goblin put his hand on it, which was good; on the other hand, the enraged horde of goblins and half a dozen Death Eaters coming his way was not good at all.

Harry got out of the vault, sword in one hand, wand in the other. "Protego!" Harry yelled as the goblins started attacking him. The wand didn't channel the spell at all. Harry's dud of a spell would have been the end of him if not because the sword blocked a couple of nasty spells coming his way. More than a bit ticked and even more desperate, Harry called a Bombarda Maxima, which, thank God for small mercies, put a firm wall of crumbled stones between (and in some cases on top) of his oncoming enemies.

There was little time to think, a sure death ahead of him and a potential one in the darkness deeper down in the mines... he would have to take his chances.

So The-Boy-Who-Lived ran into the darkness where a thousand dark creatures and Merlin knows what else awaited to take a piece of him. In his mad rush, he bumped into the pale dragon that had been outside the Lestrange chamber. Absently, Harry couldn't help but notice that the chain was longer than he first thought it was. A fiery roar later reminded him that he shouldn't stay put looking stupidly at a dragon that could easily eat Hagrid as though the half-giant was a Bertie Bott's every flavor bean.

Still, for the life of him, Harry could not move. The dragon rose on its hackles and looked down at him with foggy grey eyes. "Erm, hi?" Harry greeted, feeling like a complete and utter moron. Really, 'hi?', who says 'hi' to a dragon. The dragon which had been barring its teeth towards Harry, didn't attack as Harry thought it would. Maybe because Harry was not a goblin, maybe because of another reason all together; he couldn't help but feel a bit emboldened by the way the dragon was looking his way: sure, the dragon looked ready to attack, but it had stopped growling as much and it had yet to attack.

Had Griphook been wrong to think this dragon wilder because it was kind of blind? Had he lied? At this point in time, the answers to those questions were irrelevant. The important bit was not the why, but the fact that the dragon was not attacking and whether if (and this was a really big if) Harry managed to free the dragon it would let Harry be there for the ride out... It was official, Harry had gone completely barmy.

"Look, I don't want to hurt you," He spoke calmly, putting the sword of Gryffindor in the floor; the dragon calmed a bit when the sharp and pointy object was out of Harry's hand, but continued to eye him regardless, "I'm trapped here too. So, how about we help each other a bit? I let you go, then we try to get out. I can cut that chain with a spell, probably, and then we could work together to get out?" Harry continued to move towards the dragon, trying to look as non-threatening as he could. When he got close enough to grab the chains, Harry shot a cutting curse at the metal. The metal remained the same and while Harry was unsure if it failed because the chains were goblin-made or because the wand was being rebellious, he knew that his best bet would be to go back, pick the sword up, and then cut the thing with the ancient weapon.

"Look, it didn't work. You probably don't want me to get close with a sword, not after the bloody goblins cut you up like that, but I promise I won't hurt you. See, I'm walking back very slowly, not moving fast at all, or trying to ambush you. I'm right where you can see me... or smell me, or whatever you are doing to know where I am. Now I have the sword. I will walk towards you a bit and then stop: it will be up to you to walk the rest of the way." Harry observed the dragon, the dragon looked at Harry. For a moment there was a connection between them, not one Harry understood, but one that was undeniably present. How long had it been since Harry blew up that wall? It couldn't have been more than three minutes; so why did it feel like he had been here for much longer?

Seconds felt like years as the incoming goblin horde's magic made sure that the rocks rapidly crumbled. There was something ancient taking place between them, wizard and dragon, powerful beings of magic that had been threatened by a common foe. Both fated to die without the other.

The dragon stepped forwards as the pile of rocks finally crumbled. Harry swung the sword and the chain broke. He jumped on the dragon, each hand grabbing to one of the flaky scales. They cut Harry's hand, making him bleed, hurting him as his body harmed the scarred body of the broken dragon. They both endured the pain, both inexplicably aware of the other's suffering. Another spell being shouted brought them back to reality.

The Dragon shot forwards, the goblins attacked, and (surprise, surprise) Bellatrix stood among the Death Eaters shooting all manners of dark spells towards him. It was a testament to Harry's bad luck that the crazy woman had decided to visit Gringotts today of all days.

Harry chanted and shielded himself as best as he could, but there was not much he could do for the dragon which was a target that was almost bigger than the place it was placed in. It trashed, its folded wings making the stalactites from the side rain over the cart Harry had used to travel to the Lestrange Vault. The vibration of the collision of its wings on the walls made the whole place tremble like an earthquake was taking place.

Everything from that point on was chaos; the spells rebounded from the walls harming the dragon and Harry's enemies alike. And for every spell that hit a wall that didn't crumble, lines of rainbow light stayed behind. Soon enough, it looked as though they were floating in what Harry could only describe as a pot of glowing letter soup. It was in the rocks, on the floor, on the ceiling, in the very dust that danced in the windless air.

Then, as the very air shook, Harry's fresh blood mixed with the dragon's when a bloody hand made contact with a reopened scar between the dragon's scales. Magic flared in the air. The very earth seemed alive and thrumming with a power Harry would bet was there long before the goblins made these caves their home. But there was something alien as well, something both mundane and profoundly otherworldly. It was like it should have been impossible for whatever was here to exist: like music without a melody, or a dance without movement.

There was a ceasefire. Something primal screamed at Harry to run, to get away from there. "We need to go!" He yelled to the dragon, the dragon moved forwards like it understood. Harry's pursuers also turned tail and tried to leave... tried being the operative word.

With no discernible trigger, the whole place lit up in a vortex of spiraling runes and magic that had been dormant for thousands of years. Harry felt himself overwhelmed by the whole thing, and there was only so much he could take before he was inevitably knocked out by the sensory overload.

...

Harry didn't know how long he was passed out. He didn't know if he was even awake. All he knew was that he was standing in Diagon Alley as it had been when he first entered the wizarding world: yet, it was not the same. The whole place looked snow-white, like all colors had bled from it, as though the place was timeless, with no life and no movement beside his own. It was surreal.

The oddest thing of all? Harry had yet to be attacked here. It was nice, he supposed, to be able to take another step and not have to worry about the consequences. He no longer had to worry about the war, or Voldemort; he could just stay there, as motionless as the leaves on the white trees. He didn't even have to breathe or think, just be. Be just Harry, be at peace...

No! Harry could not die yet! Why? He didn't remember, but he knew it was important. His friends? The wizarding world? No, it was something else. Something as grey and as tangible as threads of smoke.

 _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..._

The prophesy! There had been a prophesy! He could not die yet, his fate was to live and fight, to triumph or die... And yet, he felt the words lose power by the second. There was something calling, something bigger than that which he had been destined to do. And he knew not if it was bad or good, but it reached to him and pulled.

At the mercy of a force Harry had no hope to comprehend, the threads of his destiny became undone, leaving his future as uncertain as that of every other mortal hurled into an unknown place with no hopes of ever going back home.

If Trelawney's prophesy ball had been whole, the silvery smoke within it would have turned black: the destiny of worlds had changed forever.

 _To Be Continued._

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 **AN:** So that's a wrap! I hope it satisfied the expectations of all the people who voted for this fic in the poll. Make sure to review :)


	2. A Dramatic Entry

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't care. Writing this for free.

 **AN:** Before I start, thanks to all who decided to give this fic a try after what was basically a modified re-run of a book chapter. Now all becomes original material... which scares me a bit to be honest. I hope you like it.

 _Updated on: 04-10-2016. Betaed by: ddzhalev_

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 _"You are the true master of death, because the true master does not seek to run away from Death. He accepts that he must die, and understands that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying." Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter._

From the article "Elder Wand" in the Harry Potter Wikia

Chapter 2: A Dramatic Entry

An electric blue storm of magic suddenly appeared in the deepest parts of a natural web of rocky subterranean caves. The outlash was unrestrained and violent, but even as it whipped against the stones turning boulders into a rain of pebbles, the damage done by the crash-landing of a giant dragon the likes of which had not been seen since the ages when magic was might.

The dragon, barely conscious, struck the stalactites and stalagmites making them rain painfully, like blunt needles, on top of its mangled body; then, as pain distracted it, it hit the walls of the cave with such a force that the ruins of a nearby villa, pillaged by Dothraki savages, toppled and crashed because of the earthquake the collision produced. On the shores of the continent (much closer than any village) the seas rebelled and created waves that would have drowned many sailors, had any decide to sail so late that night.

But the mythical dragon was not the only foreigner to arrive deep into the land's flesh: a young man, body in shambles and dress in tatters,hit the same wall the dragon had crashed into due to their shared momentum. Of course, the hit of his body added little to the tremble his mount had caused: his soft flesh was hurt and ripped in places, letting crimson life flow out of him as his bones cracked with an ominous sound.

It was a good thing the boy was a wizard: for no ordinary mortal would have survived such an experience. The boy's soul, absent in it's visit of a white limbo during the crash, fled back to his body when the parasitic Horcrux in his forehead payed the toll of the Grim Reaper, saving the wizard's life... Still, even tricking Death itself did nothing to save The-Boy-Who-Lives-Again from the physical damage of being tossed through a inter-dimensional vortex, then getting launched into a hard rock with enough force to crack it.

When The-Boy-Who-Lived woke up, the first thing he registered was the pain, then the absolute darkness he was surrounded by. "Shit," Harry succinctly resumed his current situation with a pained gasp. He could not see, not in such a darkness, but he could feel his glasses resting on his nose. Fortunately, the unbreakable charm Hermione had cast on them held true; unfortunately, the indestructible metal had created a trail of torn skin and bruised (probably cracked) bone from ear to ear, around his eyes, and had broken his nose at the point it had been resting.

Had Harry not being in so much pain, he would have thanked the heavens that the spell held instead of having his glasses breaking in sharp shards that would have buried themselves in his eyes until the only physical trait associated with his mother met its end in a rain of aqueous humor. As it was, Harry simply cursed his luck at turning what was a somewhat-well-planned bank robbery into such a massive disaster. It seemed that from the moment he had put his foot in Gringotts everything that could have gone wrong did so in spades.

But let it not be said that Voldemort's once-prophesized bane was a wimp: After a few minutes of gathering his wits, the wizard blindly started searching for Bellatrix' wand on the rocky floor it must have fallen on. Tumbling around on rocky soil, his hands clumsily searched the ground for the magical stick, slipping twice on the pools of blood that were turning what little earth was there into coppery mud. He eventually found the temperamental wand... or, rather, a bunch of splinters that zapped him as soon as he made contact, briefly providing a spark of light before the magic in them died.

So, Harry was now who knows where, beaten up worse than ever, unable to see or stand up... plus, he was bleeding something fierce... and, to top it all, he could hear the breathing and rustling of a bloody dragon (which might be starving for all Harry knew) right beside him in an enclosed space. And Harry was tired, so so tired. He decided to get a bit of rest as he lied down in a state of pained drowsiness that he had not experienced since after the fight with Slytherin's Basilisk. Some primal part of Harry alerted him that if he went to sleep now he might never wake up again, but he was too tired to care.

Right beside Harry, a pained groan made the wizard look in the direction of the dragon in the absolute darkness. "Feels like shite, doesn't it?" Harry spoke to the dragon, "A whole life as a prisoner, living being nobody and then having the entire wizarding world look at you like you were born to be something more..." Harry stopped his delirious tirade as a wet cough escaped his cracked lips. "You... we are dying... and... I think I always knew I would." Harry chose to interpret the soft growl of the dragon as an agreement, then smiled. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess, but... you are a dragon, you are made of stronger stuff. I bet that you will get up again after a bit of rest and then get your freedom. You can even eat me after I die, no hard feelings there... oddly enough, I think that, even dying and getting eaten by a dragon is a much better option than becoming a hostage, to be used as a lure for my friends... they are the most important thing for me, you know? And being dead is probably better than being the reason they get killed" Harry smiled sadly. Now his friends were on his own, surely getting worried sick about him.

More than the prospect of his own death, it was the thought of leaving them alone to face Voldemort and the Death Eaters that truly terrified him. His right hand curled with impotence and grief, but then he felt it uncurl on its own and he could feel something smooth and thin in his grip: even if it had only appeared then, it felt like it had always been there. Confused, Harry turned towards his hand, but the lack of light made it impossible to see what his fingers were curled around. Intrigued, Harry started to palm the item until he came to the realization that it was a wand. Thanking his luck and not wasting any time on pondering about the hows, Harry cast a Lumos, and the small ball of light exploded in the room with such potency it illuminated the gargantuan underground cave: needless to say, it blinded Harry for a while.

Once his eyes adapted to the light, Harry took a moment to eye the wand: some black wood with bumps that looked very familiar, but he could not place where he had seen it before. Then, Harry Accio-ed a healing potion, gulping it down like a tequila shot. Feeling marginally better, Harry summoned a blood replenishing potion, a Skele-grow and some pepper up ...he probably shouldn't be drinking the potions like that, since he knew mixing random potions could cause a wizard a lot of damage: still, without the first three he would die for sure, and without the pepper up he wouldn't have the energy to search for a spot to ward and pass out; which would end in his demise since the Death Eaters would be able to find him with one meager Point Me spell.

As soon as Harry had downed the nasty-flavored liquids, he felt both unbelievably better, and remarkably worse. He could now move and be alert, but the magical exhaustion he could feel in his bones made him want to crumble and a sudden hunger racked his body. He felt like he had not eaten in months, months that he had spent running without stopping. Harry heaved, feeling like he was about to throw up and hyperventilate at the same time. Then he felt fat and muscle in his body being sucked by his very magic to replenish itself by using Harry as a carbohydrate battery: it was, in one word, disturbing.

Harry didn't let the feelings get the better of him, instead, he focused on retrieving food out of the beaded bag and glomping it down like Dudley would a piece of candy. So Harry ate and ate with his body working a mile per minute and continuing to empty his stomach with frightening efficiency. It was only when Harry had consumed enough food to keep his cousin fed for a month that he finally felt the desperate hunger vanish into a sense of satiety. Belly full, Harry simply cast two guards and a Muggle repelling charm big enough to encompass himself and the dragon before passing out.

...

The second time Harry woke up in the pitch black cave he was slightly surprised to discover he was alive. But, then again, maybe the dragon next to him (which he could hear and feel, but not see) deemed Harry too bony to be a worthy snack. Harry smiled at the thought, and while he would have panicked to find himself so close to a dragon, he felt oddly at ease at the moment... which probably had to do with the logical fact that, if the dragon had intended to eat him, it would have done so already.

"Lumos," Harry chanted, chasing away the darkness that returned with a spark of light. As soon as there was enough light to see, Harry noticed a pile of decapitated, half-chewed rats the size of cats piled up by his side. "Urgh, why are-" Harry felt a spark of confusion on top ofblazing disgust at the sight and, now that he paid more attention to his surroundings, the smell.

The pile of minced rats sparked an old memory from when he was still unaware of his being a wizard. It had been a cloudy day, an unusually cold one for mid-September, and all the cats of Mrs Figg had decided to seek warmth inside the house of Harry's squib neighbor. The smell in the air was a mix of rotten cabbage and cat piss. It was one of those rare days that Harry missed his horrid family, and wished fervently to get back to Number 4 Privet Drive. But, if the whole thing was not nasty enough, in came this big striped cat carrying a dead mouse and depositing it on Mrs. Figg's apron. Much to Harry's surprise, such actions earned the cat not a beating but a lot of cooing noises, gushing and a very long belly rub.

Harry's conclusion? The woman was sick in the head. But, sensing his confusion, the batty cat lady went on a proud explanation about cat behaviors and how them bringing food was the way cats said I love you. Harry hadn't believed the explanation until that experience repeated itself years later with Hermione getting a big dead lizard and, after Harry asked her about it, he got a very long, very boring, explanation on how many species, like cats and dogs, would bring their hunting trophies as a gesture of love, and how that behavior was related to the animals' instinct of bringing food to their babies.

But to think that the dragon was delivering Harry food... it was unexpected to say the least. So, gamely, Harry thanked the dragon, which looked at Harry expectantly and Harry, correctly interpreting the dragon's look, picked up one of the rats by its tail (gross) and mimed eating as he chewed air.

If the dragon had not been half-blind, the pretense wouldn't have convinced the smart magical creature.

Harry stopped after a short while and the dragon, with what Harry would only describe as a satisfied air, swallowed "the leftovers" with a single bite. The amount of food consumed could not have been anything remotely satisfying for a creature of such size, and Harry had thenagging suspicion that it had offered him to eat first. Harry felt oddly touched by the gesture, as well as slightly guilty: hadn't he thought Charlie was bonkers to willingly get close to dragons when he saw his first grown-up one before the first task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament? And there were all those horrible thoughts towards dragons when he was getting chased by that vicious Hungarian Horntail he stole the golden egg from. Harry had not known much about dragons until he researched to prepare for the Tri-Wizard Tournament's first task, and his focus had been entirely on how not to get killed by the fire-breathing magical creatures, so he knew nothing about how much dragons needed to eat, or sleep, or simply how to get them to understand his intentions. So, Harry did what he does best: he charged ahead and hoped for the best.

"Since you gave me food I suppose that means you are not angry with me for getting you in this mess. And, well, I can see you are very hurt, as am I, so we are probably going to be stuck down here for a while... so, erm, yeah," Harry finished lamely. He was not sure how to deal with this whole situation. Of course, his Gryffindor side was telling him to get up, search for a way out and get back to his friends, but Harry's sore body and his bloody common sense told him to stay put until he didn't feel like his lungs would burst from the inside if he breathed too deeply. So, given that he was forced to stay put and move very little, there was room for thinking what to do next. And, among the many scenarios that came to Harry while he sat next to the spot where the dragon deposited its food to share with him —which still smoked a little from where the dragon fired at it(and, really, Harry had had no idea dragons ate burnt food before that point)— Harry started considering the possibility of getting out of the cave by riding the dragon. In Harry's mind's eye the two would soar through the skies until they found Voldemort and scorched his nose-less, bald head like a match catching fire.

Wouldn't death via dragon fire make more sense as "the power he knows not" than the idea of trying to kill the man with "the power of love"? For all Harry knew, getting the fire-breathing magical creature had been part of the script fate had prepared for him.

Or... maybe, Harry was wrong and after losing the dragon on his way out he would walk towards Voldemort and love him to death.

Belatedly realizing the possible implications that last idea could have, Harry felt both nauseated and giggly. So he laughed, more than a bit hysterically, as his high-strung emotions latched onto the first non-brooding (if still disturbing) thought to cross his mind in months. Harry would probably need therapy when his role in the wizarding war was over.

"Hey, dragon," Harry called with a barely contained laughter, "want to save the world with me?" Harry's lips twitched up as the dragon slowly moved to face Harry as though it could understand what the wizard was saying, "we could go beat Voldemort together, then, if you want, we can go to the house of this goblin I know and make a little bonfire out of it for being such a slimy traitor... though if you chose to burn the house with him inside, please don't tell me; plausible deniability and all that."

The dragon tilted his head slightly to the side in a slightly dog-ish manner and Harry laughed again. "I will take that as a yes. So, now that we are going to be companions you need a name... Ok, now, what is a good name for a dragon? Do dragons usually have names? I know Hagrid named a Norwegian Ridgeback Norbert (which turned out to be a Norberta) but I don't know if that was a good dragon name or not... and the only dragon-ish name I know of is 'Draco' but I wouldn't name you after that ponce."

Deciding that a name of a famous wizard would have to do, Harry searched his brain for a historic name that sounded dragon-ish but, unsurprisingly, his mind only provided goblin names since that is the only thing professor Bins had ever taught in history class. So, Harry picked up the wand he found before passing out last time and, pointing it into Hermione's beaded bag, he commanded of the wand "Acciochocolate frog cards". A second later a little satchel flew up, and Harry started shuffling for an appropriate name.

"Alberic Grunnion? No. Miranda Goshawk?... wait, are you a boy or a girl?" Harry stopped to ask. The dragon had gotten bored by their conversation and had laid back down on the floor, staring lazily at Harry with grey eyes tinted a murky blue. Harry, who was talking more for his own benefit that that of the dragon, just kept filling the silence with middle chatter. "Hmm... maybe Hermione put a book about dragons into her bag." She did, Harry found out with another Accio.

"So, dragons are fire breathing... their babies should eat... the known species are... There! A dragon's gender: it's impossible to determine a dragon's gender until they reach puberty, and even then it takes an expert to tell them apart. However, the average wizard can reach certainty of whether or not the dragon is female or male during mating season... so, basically, there is no way to know until you have babies. Fantastic." Harry felt a tad annoyed, that research was a complete waste of time. So... maybe Harry could give it a name, then change it if he got it wrong. Making it fit a gender or another was not important, he would have only a 50% chance of getting it right.

"Babayaga," Harry snorted at the name of the first card, but he started shuffling them. "Archibald Alderton, Beatrix Bloxam, Ethelred the Ever-Ready, Fulbert the Fearful, Merwyn the Malicious, Wendelin the Weird..." It was official, wizard naming-sense was horrid. Even thefounders had not been spared: Helga Hufflepuff, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor. It was a wonder Harry had notbeen named Peter Potter or something equally ridiculous.

Amused, Harry checked the next card: "Albus Dumbledore" and his mirth died a quick death. The death of the Headmaster still hurt, and Harry could still envision the eccentric wizard dressed in his painfully cheery robes and twirling around his fittingly peculiar black wand with little bumps...

Harry felt his heart skip a beat as his eyes were pulled down towards the wand that had appeared in his grip before. He had not noticed right away, as delusional and pain-filled as he was, but it was blatantly obvious now: there in Harry's hand was Dumbledore's wand, the Elder Wand Voldemort had killed the wandmaker Mykew Gregorovitch to try to get. Harry stared at the wand dumbly, he had been doing the impression of a gaping fish with too much frequency lately. Then, as it sunk in that, "yes, this was the most powerful wand ever" Harry felt a shiver of excitement? Happiness? Relief? All he knew was that the last week had had more dramatic revelations than all his years of divination classes combined.

Thoughts of dragon-naming forgotten, Harry spent several minutes inspecting and committing to mind all the details of the Elder Wand. A part of him was convinced that it would drop the facade of being the wand he knew it was if he stared long enough. What in the name of Merlin was the wand doing here? Had it found him? Did Dumbledore do something to it so it could find Harry? Harry wouldn't put it past the old wizard to manage something of the sort; after all, hadn't Dumbledore managed to give Gryffindor's Sword to Harry through the seemingly insane process of sending him a bird and a hat?

The utter absurdity of the situation hit Harry like a Bludger, giving The-Boy-Who-Lived an impressive headache... well, added to the one he was already feeling. Clearly, he had become fate's toy, otherwise he would not be lost in an underground cave (which he assumed was a yet to be developed area of Gringotts) with a hurt, blind dragon that looked at Harry as one to be protected, and now Harry had Voldemort's most desired object.

It was bloody ridiculous.

That he was still wearing the black dress he put on to pass as Bellatrix didn't even register given the sheer oddness of his situation.

Harry moved his arm to rub his forehead when an idea, one that made him pause, entered his head: he had the most powerful wand, so... maybe... Harry raised The Elder Wand and pointed towards the dragon he sort-of befriended, chanting the only healing spell he knew. "Episkey!" he shouted and, much to his amazement, Harry saw the bleeding gashes on the dragon's body close as though he had not used a simple spell on the single most magic-resistant creature ever to exist in the world.

Too amazed to do anything but watch his handiwork, Harry failed to notice that the wand kept on leeching his power to make the magic work... not until he started to get dizzy anyway. Then Harry cut the stream of magic and marveled at the power at his fingertips. Forget about the dragon, the wand was probably "The Power Voldemort Knew Not"... or maybe it was the dragon? He should probably take both to make sure. And wasn't the image of himself ridding a dragon and wielding the most powerful wand the wickedest thing ever?

Yes, yes it was.

Of course, Harry failed to factor one little thing before he tossed the spell at a dragon who had spent a lifetime in captivity wanting to break free. And it was... well, the dragon wanting to get free. So, with a mighty roar, the dragon spread it's wings and the cave they were in trembled. The strong feet of the creature stomped down and almost turned him into a Harry-pancake. But then, with was easily the most brutal crash his ears had ever heard, the dragon smashed itself against the rock over and over again in its bid for freedom. "You are going to make this place collapse on us!" Harry yelled as parts of the ceiling fell with every hit of the dragon's body upon it. "Protego!" a dome of light wrapped the two of them but the dragon just kept at it. Harry realized, as the dragon moved upwards and forwards, that there was a path-way, too small for the dragon to cross, in the direction it was moving. Needless to say, the narrower the path, the more debris Harry had to dodge or shield against.

With Harry's luck, as soon as the dragon got out in the open, it would be in the heart of some muggle settlement and the dragon would single-handedly destroy a lot more than the statute of secrecy... Harry had to stop it.

"Wait!" Harry shouted, but the dragon didn't listed as it struggled to be free with obsessive fervor. "Crap, there must be something... Acciobroom!" An old broom, a tad less tattered than the defective ones Harry had used on his first flying lesson, jumped from Hermione's beaded bag. Harry was utterly unsurprised to find Ron's broom inside since Hermione packed what felt like EVERYTHING they owned into it; which was good, though not nearly as good as it would have been to still have his own Firebolt, which was shattered and lost shortly before his 17th birthday. Regardless, a broom was a broom, and Harry took to the sky with it: sadly, the speed left much to be desired, and the dragonsmashed its way out before Harry could stop it.

"Oh, no," Harry exclaimed as the bulk of the dragon hit the walls and ceiling around the exit, showering Harry with more huge chunks of debris he barely managed to evade. Then, as if taken out of a movie, the entrance of the cave collapsed a breath away from burying Harry alive as the wizard flew into the starry sky.

The only bright side in this mess? There was not so much as a hovel in sight, and it was still dark, though Harry could see the sun starting to peek out over the horizon.

"Wait," Harry yelled, and, forcing his borrowed broom to the max speed it could reach, he got close enough to jump on top of the dragon and... well, he had no idea what to do now: a ballsy Gryffindor-ish move if Harry had ever made any; incidentally, it was a very stupid thing to do. Painful too, and he let go of the broom (which hopefully wasn't the only one in the bag) as it fell down. Harry felt a certain male-exclusive brand of pain, having caught one of the protrusions of the dragon's spine with the soft bits between his legs.

The dragon, which had been hovering in place as it looked around for something, rushed forwards, unaffected by the painfully bruised wizard on its back. Harry would have fallen when it shot forwards, if not for his legs (smashed bits or not) which had developed the instinct of gripping anything between them as he flew on the Quidditch pitch, not to mention he found some blunt scales that he could grab to keep himself in place while the dragon flew erratically. In hindsight, it made sense of the dragon to eagerly flail about: it was the first time in Merlin knows how long (maybe even the first time ever) for it to ride the skies.

Harry didn't have time to mourn the loss of his friend's broom: once he had overcome the pain, he was too busy feeling sick as the dragon moved up and down, side to side, as its rusty wings rebelled against the sudden amount of exercise falling upon them. But, soon enough, the Dragon proved that it had, indeed, been born to fly. So its movements were getting smoother by the second; which was good for Harry's stomach. Then, as Harry was getting used to riding the dragon and the ever-welcomed thrill of flying started to come back... the Potter Luck struck.

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...

Tyrion Lannister was downing a flask of wine as he sat on one of the stone steps that led to the throne that, not a week ago, had been occupied by Daenerys Targaryen. The Lannister dwarf had not been there for very long before he was abruptly faced with the daunting task of taking charge of the worshipping subjects that had come in search of the queen of Meereen, convinced that the woman was the glimmering hope that would keep the horrors of the world away. The city had been so alive then, brimming with the happiness of a newfound freedom, but now? The people of Meereen walked hunched and fearful, only looking up to search for the queen that took flight on a dragon,leaving them all behind.

"You won't find the answers you seek in the bottom of a bottle," a somewhat feminine, silky voice whispered to the slightly drunk dwarf.

"Maybe so, but wine has the remarkable power to wash away questions without an answer."

"For a while," Varys pointed out.

"For a while," Tyrion agreed before taking a big gulp.

Varys simply stood there, not speaking a word while he watched the only Lannister he had ever considered a friend.

"So, I understand you have nothing to do tonight. But I'm not really in the best of moods for talking right now. Of course, I figure spending time with me is your best option, since everyone around this place is boring and you can't- you know- find other, ah, diversions to fill the nights with... or rather, _fill the diversions._ "

Varys raised a fine eyebrow at that, but did nothing else but stand there. It pissed Tyrion more than anything else the eunuch could have said.

"They are losing hope." Varys nodded at the dwarf's words.

"That they are. Question is, what shall we do about it?"

"I don't have a plan yet," Tyrion admitted, "But I will do in time."

"Let's hope you do."

There was a moment of silent companionship, then a frowning Missandei walked primly into the room. "There you are."

"What is the matter, my dear?"

"You need to see this," she declared, sounding a bit worried.

A couple of minutes later, Varys and Tyrion stood outside with the beautiful dark-skinned woman, who then moved a bit away from them to stand besides Grey Worm. In the area they were looking at there where thousands of ex-slaves pointing at the sky where a red comet moved ever-so-slowly in the sky.

"My little birds told me that the last time the Red Sword appeared in the sky was the same day our Targaryen queen became the Mother of Dragons." Varys commented all too calmly.

Tyrion felt a mix of hopefulness and cautious optimism.

"The Red Messenger has spoken!" A woman dressed in red yelled from the top of a rock. Many people turned to see her, a brown-haired Red Priestess, who soon started claiming this was a sign from the Lord of Light, who had come to light the path in a night that was dark and full of terror.

"That, cannot, be, good," Tyrion declared, pausing between each word as he saw the people around him clamor and get a measure of hope back... which was a good thing, because it would buy them time to prevent Meereen from sinking into despair... but what would be the cost of the brief respite in the long run?

The dwarf looked pensive then. However, other than the priestess coming up with words to inflame the spark of fanaticism, nothing happened. But the air was filled with the promise of something coming, and even the most skeptical man in Meereen (who so happened to be Tyrion) couldn't help but watch the sky and wait for something, hopefully the queen, to come back riding her black dragon.

She didn't, and the night became day, and the day night.

But, when the sun started shining the next day, Tyrion didn't need to be roused out of his room with news of a commotion outside, he got up before it formed. In fact, as Tyrion woke up with the sun to empty his bladder and clean the sour taste in his mouth with a sip of Meereen's best wine, a bottle of which he had on the table by the window, he got to see a shadow flying towards the city: it was too big to be any bird, and that left only one option. In equal parts relieved and exited, the dwarf ran to the square and waited. A small crowd started forming, and shouts of "Mhysa" rang out, filling the air with the same hopeful glee that had been there before the queen flew away. It seemed that the charismatic ruler would not face any political backlash for her little fly away, such was the love of her people for her.

But the shadow got near fast, and... the color was wrong. For instead of a body that looked sculpted from shiny dragon glass, the dragon (and there was no mistaking it for anything else) was a dull whitish grey color, like that of a cloud or a frozen pond. And it got closer, and closer. It then flew between the sun and the ground, sending the whole plaza into shadow. Soon enough, the pale dragon flying in the sky landed, and the very stones of the castle shook as the creature's weight almost made the stones under it's feet crumble to dust.

The pale dragon was big, like a mountain: the dragon positively dwarfed the one that Tyrion had seen taking the queen away from the Sons of the Harpy, the difference in size as evident as the height of a babe compared to the height of a grown unsullied.

And it was every bit as ugly as it was big. Scars, chipped scales tainted with blood and dirt, it had clearly been very hurt, what hurt it was anyone's guess, and there were wounds both fresh and old. It's face, though, that was the ugliest part of it: the cloudy eyes, the protruding cheekbones and the bleeding gums. The creature looked raving mad, and was starved, the way the scales of it's belly sunk in to wrap around ribs that almost poked out from the exposed grey flesh where the nacre scales must have been ripped out, was a testament to the hunger the creature had gone through.

Tyrion understood right away: it was starving... and they were meat. Not a good thing.

The dragon roared hungrily, something burnt and putrid coming out of it mouth. The people of Meereen, chants for their queen forgotten, ran like death was on their heels; it probably was. The unsullied, brave men that they were, moved to form a circle around the creature as it moved it's maw to grab the closest civilian to swallow the man like a small grape.

It was a testament to the men's training that they were not peeing themselves as they got in the way. And Tyrion? Well, he was frozen inplace, there was a part of him that knew that his tiny legs could not get him away fast enough, so he settled for dying while looking at the deadly show happening close by. He barely registered being left alone, and, later on, he would wonder what Varys had looked like while he ran... more to the point, it all felt like the deadly dance Tyrion was looking at had lasted minutes, in truth it had been mere seconds since the dragon landed.

The dwarf was so sure he was going to die, until the unfolding events made an unexpected turn: the dragon's body gained a slightly blue hue as it stiffened and fell down like a gigantic wooden board. And, once the dragon no longer had its head high, a small human figure could be seen on top of it (or at least it looked small from where Tyrion was standing). Time seemed to freeze. The man, wearing what looked likea black dress, stood up like an ant over a hill, but there was power, like a blue cloak of thunder, enveloping him as he stood there, looking down at them.

And, as the very wind seemed cowed into silence in the presence of the man in drag, Tyrion had one very stupid thought: "That is certainly not the queen."

 _To Be Continued._

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 **AN:** See that? Dramatic entry FTW! (hope it's not too cliffhangery). Did this chapter live up to your expectations? I hope it did, the first version was crap and deserved to be burnt by a certain green fire I feel no need to mention the name off.

Funny fact, the list of wizard names were all taken out from the real list of Chocolate Frog chromes in the Harry Potter wikia. Oh, and about the pale dragon being bigger: dragons never stop growing (didn't find anything contradicting that), so a who-knows-how-old-Gringotts dragon compared to young dragon hatchlings? Yeah, it's almost self-explanatory why Harry's dragon is bigger.

So... review?


	3. The Dragon and the Dwarf

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't care. Writing this for free.

 **AN:** Got 100 reviews on the chapter 2! First time ever to get that many. Thanks a lot to you all.

Before you start, I want to recommend a fic: "The Elvequeen" by PristinelyUngifted. I think this is the best Legolas (from Lord of The Rings) X Hermione Granger romance I have read. Its not roundabout or prissy and is so easy to read.

That said, I hope you like this chapter.

 _Updated on 04-10-2016. Betaed by: ddzhalev._

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 _Let us sleep for in dreams we enter a world that's entirely our own. Let us swim through the deepest ocean or glide over the highest cloud._

Albus Dumbledore in "Harry Potter and Prisoner of Azkaban"

Chapter 3: The Dragon and the Dwarf

There are moments in life when one's mind goes completely blank. This was what Harry was going through as he faced an army of dark-skinned people with pointy and sharp weapons. Usually, the reaction to being faced with such a distinctive crowd would be to run in the opposite direction; but, given that he was on top of a huge dragon and that the terrified mini-army was trying to protect the population of the town from his mount, Harry's course of action was not a simple one.

'Ok. Now what?' Harry wondered as the moment seemed to stretch forever. Idly, his mind registered that he could feel a breeze on his knees and the flutter of what Harry realized was the stupid dress he had donned for his Bellatrix impersonation.

Bloody fantastic.

The moment of complete and utter blankness was interrupted when Harry felt the ground under his feet (or rather, the dragon) struggle: the petrification spell was starting to fail, which... was less surprising than the fact that the spell had worked in the first place. A wave of emotion not-his-own hit Harry in the face, and he couldn't help but take a step back and grimace at the completely unexpected and alien sensation reaching from bellow him: The dragon was furious, vindictive and hungry.

Harry decided to focus on the hunger, thinking that maybe placating its hunger Harry could dissuade the dragon from trying to make a snack of the city's guard; not to mention a full belly would improve the mood of the mighty beast.

On shaky feet, Harry stumbled down from the dragon, the little spasms of the slowly failing spell made him almost face-plant on the stone ground bellow. "Please don't attack. We mean no harm," Harry declared as soon as his feet touched the ground. To be honest, Harry had no idea where (or when) in the world he was, and was unsure of whether or not these people would even speak English; but maybe the slow, non-threatening tone and what he hoped was the universal gesture for 'I come in peace' would be enough to stop the guards from killing him.

To Harry's astonishment, the brave soul to walk towards him was a dwarf. The tiny man with the impressive face scar (which was at least five times as big as Harry's famous lightning bolt one) walked with a pompous gait and his head held high, which did nothing to hide the nervousness that was evident when the tiny man's hands shook. The dwarf said... something, while doing a reverence, in a tone that made it pretty clear the short man was in charge, and probably greeting a visitor.

"Sorry, but I didn't understand a word you said," Harry apologized, feeling nauseous and overly conscious of the dragon struggling against the 'Petrificus Totalus' he had cast.

Harry needed to get the dragon food and get it fast... or maybe ask their resident dragon handler to help him out.

Not that Harry thought there was any dragon handler around, that would be too convenient, and any convenience in his favor was clearly inconsistent with his shitty luck.

The dwarf scrunched his face at Harry's reply, then turned around towards a very pretty woman with dark skin and spongy black hair. The woman walked towards the dwarf trembling slightly, all the while eyeing the mountainous winged beast with apprehension. Harry was slightly confused as to why the woman had stepped closer. She spoke to him in a flowery language (which he didn't understand), then in a harsher one, then in one that had accents all over the place... it took her changing her intonation and speech pattern several times before it clicked in Harry's head that the woman was trying to pinpoint what language Harry could speak.

The woman's attempts in communication were as impressive as they were futile: it sounded as though she had tried over a dozen idioms, of which Harry knew none.

Feeling a bit of hope in the midst of his urgent need to ask, Harry spoke in English once more, then tried his luck with what little he knew of Latin. Once more communication failed. The dragon stirred again. There was no time to go the time-old routine of hitting chests and introducing oneself until the other party understood his name. Pressed for time, Harry decided to use the one language that got across every barrier in the world: money. Of which Harry had a currency that he was sure has been valuable in every culture in the history of Earth: gold.

With a surprisingly steady hand, Harry fished his coin pouch out of the moleskin pouch and brought out a galleon, then put it into the dwarfs little hand. The dwarf looked up with a raised eyebrow, and Harry pointed at the coin, then at the dragon, then mimed eating. It didn't take an exceptionally brilliant mind to understand the meaning of such a gesture, so, when the dwarf gestured to a bald, dark-skinned man in the group of warriors, and the man nodded and commanded another bald guy to go away, Harry was sure that the point had gotten across... Or so he hoped.

The slight doubt Harry had was dissipated when the man that had left came dragging half a dozen of goats. "Thank Merlin!" Harry exclaimed with relief. It was just in time too, since the spell he had used to tie the dragon failed the very next second. With a growl, the blue taint and the stiffness of the dragon disappeared. It spit a ball of flame towards the animals, and it was only Harry's long-honed seeker reflexes that allowed him to tackle the dwarf (and himself) out of the way of sure death via dragon fire.

The dragon pounced on the charbroiled farm animals, devouring them with little more difficulty than it took it to swallow the pile of rats in the cave. The dragon, hunger satisfied, burped a fireball to the sky, and someone in a nearby building screamed a girlish scream. The dragon's ire subsided and it looked at Harry, who felt the wafts of anger and vindictiveness be replaced with an even mix of annoyance and forgiveness.

Harry was too tired to dwell too much on draconian sensibilities, but was relieved in his knowledge that the dragon would not attack... him, at least.

Harry could feel the tiredness finally catch up with him. He stumbled as he got up from the floor, then put a hand on the dragon's leg, mumbled something so incoherent not even he himself had any idea of what it was, then slumped into the warm skin of the dragon. Hopefully his own words had been something along the lines of "Don't eat the locals".

Usually, leaning on something as warm as a fireplace in what was a hot, dessert climate, was a definite way of getting uncomfortable; but Harry was oddly comforted the presence of the potentially murderous, fire-breathing creature. And feeling secure and cared for was something he had not felt since... ever. Though, to be fair, it was pretty likely Harry had been very safe and cared for with his parents. And this feeling... it felt like what Harry always imagined being in the embrace of a loving family (his own, not the Weasleys) felt like.

The contentment of being cuddled killed the remains of adrenaline in his veins, and Harry promptly passed out on the too hard floor with the smell of burnt flesh and blood heavy in the air, a small smile drawn on his lips.

...

Tyrion stared at the young man on the floor and frowned. "Well, that was unexpected," he mused. In the span of five minutes, the teen in front of him (for the dragon-rider could hardly be any older than Ten and Nine) had made them all believe the queen was back; then nearly gave them all a collective heart attack by not being said queen, but a stranger riding a monster that might be able to wipe them all from the face of the Earth with a sneeze. But then, the boy had come closer, looking so completely ruffled and apologetic: the clear tiredness, the swaying of his thin body, the lost and confused look on his face, and the ripped female garbs... Tyrion would have bet that the boy had come to their doorstep after a disastrous drinking night if not for the dragon. Although, if the boy somehow managed to get a dragon and a dress during a drunken debacle, then that was a tale Tyrion definitely wanted to hear.

Tyrion had read so many tales of the Targaryens of legend, riding and claiming the world as theirs through blood and fire... this kid, who lacked the famous silver hair, had had, for a moment, such a presence that Tyrion was sure he was seeing a legend of the past. A dragon-rider, coming to conquer with unstoppable force. And this man had a force unlike anything Tyrion had ever witnessed: the blue sparks that seemed to surround the man's arm, sparks that made the dragon stiffen and fall, making it clear that its rider had the power to subdue a mountain. It was as awe-inspiring as it was terrifying. Tyrion was sure that not even the queen with her three dragons could defeat a foe such as this.

It would be a matter of time for the people to bend their knees in front of the black-haired Targaryen, or die in the blaze of his dragon. Or so it should have been. But to think that this man, this boy, would try to reassure them, then buy food for his dragon... It was absurd. It defied logic in a world where the strong lusted for power and seized it with both hands.

Tyrion was still staring at the new arrival, trying to reconcile the extremely pale and sick looking boy passed out on the floor with the imposing figure that arrived so dramatically mere minutes ago.

Where the boy had come from, Tyrion had no idea. That not even Missandei could understand the words spoken by him surely meant the boy had arrived from very distant lands. That Tyrion had not even heard about living dragons, other than those hatched by Queen Daenerys, also added weight to such a theory.

Tyrion leaned forwards a bit, as though a part of him thought it could understand the situation better by getting a closer look at this puzzling individual. There was almost nothing remarkable about the boy's appearance, he even looked... a bit like Jamie, but shorter, scrawnier, with a mop of midnight colored hair... and with a small, faded, lightning-shaped scar that could have been the result of the boy bumping his head on something as a toddler.

The only thing about the boy that truly stood out (injuries and female clothing aside) were the small windows perched on top of his nose. Tyrion had never seen anyone wear something remotely resembling those little windows, and was left guessing as to the function they could have: maybe they were an indicator of status? A religious thing? Or maybe such a thing was a means to protect a dragon rider's eyes while traveling at high speed. It would make sense to Tyrion, who was aware of the sting in one's eyes when riding a fast-moving creature, as he had come to learn on that memorable occasion, when Catelyn Stark framed him and had him straddled over a horse. Good times.

However, Tyrion's movement towards and focus on the intriguing boy was halted, then reversed, as the dragon puffed its wings outwards and roared in the dwarf's direction. Tyrion almost fell to the ground on his ass. Almost. With raised hands, the dwarf let out apologies and reassurances to the dragon, then promptly put what he hoped was an adequate distance between the boy - who might or might not be a Targaryen - and himself.

The dragon nodded in approval, then lowered its head, wrapping it lightly around the boy. It reminded Tyrion of a lioness offering protection to a cub. Soon enough, the beast was sleep, a huff sending out a stream of fire out of it's nostrils, which made a fruit stand in it's path blow up. The burning pieces of wood that were left rained down onto the ground, and some even on top of the nearby wooden constructions.

That snapped Tyrion out of his trance. "What are you standing like that for?" He spoke to the Unsullied that were on guard, but standing at a reasonable distance from the dragon (probably a hundred meters or so) "Take care of the fire!" Tyrion snapped, his tension finding a convenient outlet. The Unsullied broke formation and did as they were told, but Tyrion was no longer paying attention. His mind was swirling with the possible ramifications of this debacle.

In the end, he ordered Grey Worm to make sure nobody got close to the dragon, lest they anger it. And, to make sure nobody woke up the dragon, he asked Grey Worm to tell his men to place patrols at every entrance to the plaza. Tyrion so did not want to see the stupidity of some be the cause of Meereen ending its existence in a rain of dragon fire.

Hopefully, the dragon raider was only doing a little stop here before going to conquer another city... but hopefully not the ones ruled by the Iron Throne, since those were the ones Daenerys Targaryen was going to reclaim in due time.

Sadly, such a thing was too much to hope for, since it seemed that everyone and their granny's horse desired to claim the Iron Throne. Still, Tyrion had decided to remain optimistic despite the odds. His intuition told him that the boy was more of a free wanderer than a conqueror, a man who lived through adventures all over the world, like Aegon V The Unlikely had before he was unexpectedly crowned so many years past.

One way or another, there was not much that could be done if the boy happened to be a conqueror. Which was a very likely scenario. But, even if the boy had come to fight and conquer and rule, there was hope still; after all, a boy willing to risk himself to tackle a dwarf out of the path of dragon fire could not be too horrible of a character. Tyrion could say with authority that only genuinely good people did anything to aid a dwarf such as him.

The potential consequences of this boy entering the scene needed to be weighed immediately.

...

Thirty minutes after the arrival of The Pale Dragon and its mysterious rider, Tyrion, Varys, Grey Worm and Missandei were sitting in the chamber where the queen's Small Council was won't to reunite in, to discuss matters of great importance.

"So, we have visitors, ones that we weren't expecting,"Tyrion summarized after a few minutes of silent contemplation, then turned to Varys. "Do you know anything about them?"

"It certainly seems that we now find ourselves in quite the difficult predicament," Varys agreed, "But, I'm afraid my little birds have not sung songs about them to me."

Tyrion snorted "They must have come from a land where your birds have not spread their wings in, then," Tyrion's tone was mocking.

"I didn't recognize the tongues he spoke, neither of the two, those didn't even have a semblance of any one I know." Missandei admitted "None of the nineteen languages I learned to be the interpreter of my old masters were of any use either. "

"How we fight this man. We don't have strength to win against dragons."

"We might not need to fight," Tyrion commented, "the boy didn't strike me as one looking for conflict. In fact, this has the potential to be a good thing, if we convince him to become an ally."

"How likely is that?" Grey Worm asked.

'It depends on the boy's goal.' Tyrion almost spoke out loud, but he managed to hold his tongue. It would be for the best to keep the fact that becoming allies could be out of their hand a secret. Tyrion doubted that the translator and their military leader would be too tense then, which would only be detrimental given the circumstances. "It's a possiblity," Tyrion declared instead. Varys nodded, understanding the unspoken words.

"And how are we going to befriend him if we cannot understand one another?" Missandei added unsure.

Tyrion sighed, they certainly lacked vision. Tyrion was sure that no matter from where the dragon-rider had come from, he was a hot-blooded man: a couple of whores and few bottles of Meereen's best would be a fabulous way to become acquainted. And, not only would it put them in the boy's good books, but it would also give Tyrion the chance to learn a lot of their visitor's character; after all, it was when a man let himself go into the throes of pleasure that he let slip things otherwise unspoken.

"However, we do need to take precautions, just in case things go wrong," Tyrion declared sagely from behind a glass of wine. Yes, precautions certainly needed to be in the picture: the mountainous dragon and the possibility of a hostile takeover by the hands of a Dragon Rider from distant lands were not to be ignored.

Tyrion stood up, jumping down from his chair till his feet landed on the floor. He let his short legs take him to a window that allowed him to see a small part of the plaza where the dragon was. Tyrion could not see its entirety from the front, only the tail and half of a wing. That dragon certainly posed a problem, which is why it was doubly important to prepare as big of a welcome as possible, to make sure its powerful owner didn't become an enemy of Meereen.

With a crooked smile and a meaningfully raised eyebrow Tyrion asked, "But most precautions can wait. For now, follow me, my friends: we have to organize a proper welcome with the best Meereen has to offer."

...

An hour passed, then two, then three. The dragon and the wizard continued to sleep in the plaza. The blazing rays of the scorching sun were filling the dragon with a soft strength, the pale scales on its body loosing a bit of their sick-looking hues. The exposed skin under its scales felt soothed and the dragon was resting, truly resting, for the first time in a very long time. It smiled, a twitch of rough lips. Dragons were creatures of fire; fire and freedom and power. The sun's rays as beloved to them as water to a merman. The dragon rose its head to look at the small hatchling in its protection, the warm sun was leaving its mark on him as well, pale skin turning sun-kissed. First pink, like faded scars, then red like a blaze of ardent fire.

It pleased the dragon to see his little companion like this, and it made sure that the protective draconian embrace didn't block the rays of the sun, so the hatchling could keep on benefiting from the intense desert sun, shinning so deliciously over the two of them.

Whispers from afar trickled onto the sensitive ears of the dragon. It could not see more than little blurs of meat peeking out from holes in flat rock. It felt slightly tempted to get up and feast upon such easy prey, but his stomach was fuller than most days, and moving now would imply getting up: it felt too lazy and too content to move. Not to mention, it had a feeling that the hatchling would be upset over such actions. And hatchlings were most troublesome when upset.

The dragon yawned and stretched its wings lazily. Clouded, half-blind eyes narrowed into a doze.

Three hours became four, then five, then six. The hatchling still slept. That was good, hatchlings needed a lot of rest; rest and play and protection. The dragon would keep its vigil over the hatchling and let it regain its strength.

Then the dragon smelled it: the scent of roasting meat. It drooled a bit. The smell of food was so very close. Its nose moved towards it. The dragon felt a wave of surprise to discover the smell came from the hatchling. The dragon felt confused: had it burned the little one by accident? It couldn't remember doing so, but so little else but the fire of an adult dragon could ever burn a hatchling.

The smell of faint sickness and sweat came along with the smell of roasting meat. As though the burnt skin was festering. Dragon wounds would take a long time to fester, so this wound must have been old. Those despicable long-fingered creatures that had kept the dragon trapped deep underground must have hurt the hatchling as well.

Oh, how the dragon loathed those smelly little creatures.

A small blob neared the dragon and, for a brief moment, it thought it was one of his jailers, but his nose told a different tale. It smelled like the visitors of its old prison, yet not. The visitors had smelt of meat, wood and magic. A magic that was not quite as strong as it own, and barely similar in power as the hatchling's. This little one didn't smell like the visitors beyond the smell of meat. This one... it smelled like prey and earth and dwindling fire.

Despite the smell of fear the little prey was giving, it kept moving forward, making noises the dragon could not understand. The sounds, so much like the ones the hatchling made, gave the dragon pause. Eyes stuck on the pint-sized blob that let out those soothing sounds.

...

When all the preparations were done for the welcome of the dragon rider, Tyrion peeked into the plaza. The boy remained there, sleeping seemingly peacefully. That the boy had kept to himself for so long allowed them to fetch several barrels of good wine, arrange a luxurious guest room, choose a few servants to be under the boy's command during his stay, and ready whores guaranteed to please the most demanding of masters.

It took a few hours, but Tyrion was satisfied with the results of Missandei's preparations (or, rather, the ones she had delivered in Tyrion's stead). He would have given instructions in person if not for his contingency plan to liberate the queen's dragons in the crypt so they would see him as a friend and regain the health they had lost so they could be in optimum condition when the queen was back: they would be needing such strength if they were needed to fight the scarred Pale Dragon.

The experience of freeing the dragons was so horrifying at some moments it was a wonder Tyrion had not peed himself. He most certainly never wanted to get close to a dragon again that day.

Tyrion would later have to think up more safety measures, but, for now, he had to make sure to extend their hospitality to the boy. Offering food under their roof would invoke the Guest Right (something hopefully respected in the land the boy was from, as it has been in every kingdom since the dawn of civilization); then, under the benefits of that Guest Right, Tyrion would do his very best to foster a friendship with who could become a great asset or an even greater foe.

Dawn was the best moment to make the offer of good soup to the young man. He would be hungry and in dire need of a roof then, and Tyrion had made sure, with the help of all the Unsullied, that none but he could open the doors to the boy, not even for all the gold in a visitor's pockets: Tyrion had Varys spread the word that the queen's men would double the amount offered by the boy, should he come seeking a resting place.

Paying the common men for their cooperation was not needed in the end: much to the dwarf's surprise, the dragon and its rider remained in the same spot they had occupied since their arrival. So immobile were they that many citizens had gotten as close as a couple of steps behind the Unsullied ordered to keep the population at bay.

Still, the hours passed and the rider kept on sleeping.

The idea of approaching the dragon rider once he had gotten away from the dragon to seek sustenance and shelter was thrown out of the window, and, once more, Tyrion had the semi-suicidal plan to get close to yet another dragon.

As requested upon such a potentially lethal, dragon-centric scenario, Varys punched Tyrion in the face. The eunuch had used, in Tyrion's ever-tactful opinion, a lot more force than a perfumed man without a cock had any right of having.

...

When dawn finally came, Tyrion looked at the the other three members of Queen Daenerys' small council and spoke with more confidence than he felt: "Well, it is time to welcome our guest. I want all of you to smile and keep an eye open for our guest's needs. We must show him the utmost hospitality."

Missandei looked at Tyrion with a mix of fear and awe as he made his first step towards the plaza. Grey Worm gave a small, approving nod, and Varys followed close behind his small friend until the gates of the plaza. The soldiers keeping guard let the Half Man pass by. And the Half Man barely even faltered when the eyes of the dragon focused on him and gave Tyrion an expression that made the dwarf utterly sure the dragon was planning to eat him. Tyrion, praying that the success of his previous approach held true this time around too, spoke in soft tones to dissuade the creature.

"I have always liked dragons," Tyrion babbled with a phrase the likes of which he had used not too long ago. "I wanted to have one so much when I was little. A little dragon, just like me. But my father never gave me one. I was mocked for even asking." So far, he wasn't getting attacked, so speaking to it appeared to be working, like it did with the other two. Thank The Seven for that.

"I never saw a dragon until I came to Meereen. Our Queen has three dragons, but they are not as big or as imposing as you are." He made a few more steps forward, finally getting close enough to notice the rider, who had the most awful sunburn Tyrion had ever seen. The surprise of a sunburnt Targaryen, the house fabled to be immune to fire, made Tyrion momentarily stop in his idle narration. Then, the moment passed and Tyrion spoke once more. "I once read that the older the dragon the bigger it becomes. So, I imagine you have been around for a long time, maybe even long enough to have witnessed the golden age of the Targaryens, the Dance of Dragons, maybe even longer." Tyrion was very close now. He looked towards the boy again. The dragon blinked and seemingly understood what Tyrion wanted, for it softly bumped its snout on the sleeping rider. Even asleep, the boy whimpered as the massive beast came in contact with his red and blistered skin.

Tyrion felt a bit of pity for the boy.

Green eyes opened behind the round pieces of glass placed on the rider's nose. It was clear that the boy was in very poor condition. It took a moment to conclude that this was a bad thing: while the death of the boy could pose an advantage should he become an enemy, there were more chances to prepare for a confrontation should the rider remain alive and content. Tyrion needed to make sure the boy survived... for now at least.

Tyrion's mind spun: a life debt from the boy could be very beneficial, even if the boy had saved Tyrion's life first. He needed to get the boy some medical help right away.

"Your-" would the dragon get upset if Tyrion said 'master'? "companion is hurt." The dragon looked towards him with no indication it understood. Tyrion figured it would be for the best to show it instead of explaining things. "I will be right back," Tyrion said and so he did. This time the dwarf had a pot in his hands.

The dragon did nothing but watch as Tyrion got closer once more, unable to understand the explanation about the medicine Tyrion had fetched. It did grow tense as the dwarf got into his tiny's arms-length, but the ready-to-strike pose vanished when the green paste touched the skin of the boy, making him let out a clear moan of appreciation.

The dragon took a step back to allow the dwarf better access to its rider.

Soon enough, every visible inch of skin of the young rider was covered in burn salve. The boy looked like some oddly dressed spinach monster... And yet, the boy kept on sleeping. It was worrying. Such heavy sleep didn't seem natural.

The dwarf decided that, if the rider did not wake up, they still needed to keep the beast content. So, once the sun dipped bellow the plains, Tyrion had ordered a few sheep to feed the dragon. The expense of the second row of sheep could be easily covered by the change of the gold the foreigner had paid before.

Tyrion had to get it close to the dragon himself, and he felt annoyed: it was as though he was the one doing all of the work lately.

The dragon ate with gusto and let out a happy growl when it was done eating. The stone it had spat fire over turned black, and Tyrion suspected such a burn stain would stay where it was till the stone turned to dust.

The boy didn't wake up then either.

It would seem now it was time to wait till the boy woke up. But it was obvious that the spot where he lied was not good for his health, and it was not only the sunburn that was the problem, it was the water and salt the boy would lose upon sweating under the scorching sun. In fact, Tyrion would dare say the boy should have died already because of heat-stroke or dehydration.

Tyrion needed to take the boy away from there. Now. Which meant Tyrion would be doing a very reckless thing right now. It seemed he was on a suicidal rampage today.

"Your companion needs to be moved," Tyrion spoke, pointing to the boy. The happily full dragon looked at him with laziness. "He will die if he is left out in the cold desert night with such burns. He already seems to have a fever and is heavily dehydrated." Tyrion looked at the dragon, seeking permission. The dragon remained impassive, it clearly didn't understand a word. Tyrion would be unable to carry the boy. It was simply not possible for his small arms to carry the weight of a grown man, even one as lean as the one in front of him. So he called two guards to come over, with no weapons.

The dragon growled menacingly and stood up, Tyrion asked the men to stop, then turned towards the dragon, "They are friends. They come to help. Please," Tyrion bowed and held the pose for a long time.

...

Dragons are always protective of what they own, be it their treasures, eggs or those they decide to protect.

The Pale Dragon didn't want to allow anyone too close to what belonged to it. The scaleless hatchling was its. But the little meat blob felt safe now: it had been held close by the hatchling when he was awake, brought food twice and helped the smell of hurt and disease to become a bit better. The dragon had never experienced kindness before a betrayal, only the hurt of those that treated it badly from the start. So, the dragon trusted the little-blob-that-made-things-better. The blob didn't smell of danger or metal... the men who came after, did.

The dragon got ready to defend its hatchling and the blob when the blob started making those noises again. It was trying to calm the dragon. It was working too. The dragon was not stupid, it understood that the blob meant good because, while the blob wasn't a dragon, the blob did make things better. So, when the blob bowed in respect, something the dragon understood by instinct, the dragon bowed its head back in permission so the blob would make the hatchling better.

The blob smelled so much of relief and happiness. It made noises again and the two taller blobs that smelled of meat and metal carried the hatchling to a hole in the flat rock. They entered with the hatchling and the dragon followed behind until the door. Then it laid down in front of the building and waited. It knew from experience that when anyone entered through a hole, they came out from the same hole given time.

...

Tyrion's heart was hammering in his chest. He could barely believe that the dragon actually allowed him to take its rider away. Tyrion should be so very dead at this point. It made him want to search for Varys, so that he could punch him in the face again. Tyrion was so going to get shit-faced for a whole week when this mess of draconian proportions was over.

Once safely away from the dragon's gaze, the servants took over the duty and those that knew of the medical arts were called forth. An old, wrinkled man shouted instructions around, and the younger slaves hurried to bring everything he asked for. The man motioned to the Unsullied to follow.

Knowing his part in all this was over, Tyrion turned his back on the hustle. He needed a cup... Probably even a bottle or two. He would not drink until he got drunk, not yet, just until the wine soothed the sharp edges of his frayed nerves.

...

The next morning, Tyrion felt a lot better. The rest he had gotten was so pleasant he would dare say it was as good as waking up with his face buried in a tender bosom. He couldn't stay in his bed for too long. He needed to make sure the dragon rider was safe, so the boy could reunite with the dragon or Tyrion would have to go and try to keep it as calm and nondestructive as it had been so far.

Tyrion walked into the room, a young little girl bowed to the dwarf and Tyrion could see the scars left by her old slave collar on her neck. She stumbled upon the words clumsily, communicating with the dwarf with the same lack of grace in the common tongue that Tyrion had in the native tongue of Meereen. Roughly, he had gathered that the boy on the other side of the door they stood was getting better, but remained unconscious. The dress he had been wearing had the fabric cut and he was now naked under the blankets so the wounds could be cleaned and bandaged easily every hour. They had taken care of the body waste as well, for the boy's body had (fortunately, from a medical point of view) continued working normally despite his continued slumber.

Tyrion stepped into the room, the curtains were closed, but the morning sun still filtered in enough to keep the room well lit. The boy in the bed looked weak, but decidedly less lobster-red than he did in the plaza. The scrapped dress was on the table, clearly stitched back together with a clumsy hand and washed. There was also a change of clothes next to it, a white robe with golden and purple details that must have belonged to a Good Master, if Tyrion's knowledge of symbols did not fail him.

The boy didn't look anywhere close to waking up, not when the dark circles under his eyes had yet to go away, and didn't so much as stir in the twenty minutes Tyrion had just spent in the room.

It seemed that, once more, Tyrion would be spending some time with the dragon. Which might decide to kill him for not bringing back its rider.

Forget about asking someone to punch his face, Tyrion was going to do so to himself later if he survived.

 _To Be Continued_

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 **AN:** I hope you all liked it. I'm now officially requesting help to name the dragon. I still won't say if I plan it to be male or female, but, since Harry doesn't know, the gender does not matter. I want you all to know beforehand that no Targaryen-ish names are likely to become chosen, if only because it will be Harry doing the naming. Then again, things can become so that someone suggests to Harry a cool-sounding Targaryen name somewhere later, so, if you are too enamored with that kind of name, I will take it into consideration.

Once I have enough names I like, I will make a poll and let you all vote.

Also, I wanted to know if anyone of you knows where I can get a timeline of GoT. I need it. Badly. I have only watched the series and haven't been able to find it online yet.

Thanks for reading, and please REVIEW :3


	4. The Belated Welcome

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't care. Writing this for free.

 **AN:** Wow! So many ubberly awesome potential dragon names! Got to give the dragon all of those! Sadly, there are a lot I needed to weed out because, while I love them, I cannot see Harry naming the dragon like that. There are also many I DID like, but I thought that keeping the poll with a small amount of names would be for the best. **So Vote: the dragon poll is already up**. I hope you take a good look at them and choose your favorites (I will certainly vote for mine).

Also, I want to remind everyone that **THIS FIC IS RATED M** , there will be nudity, there will be adult interactions (no lemons unless I create an account in a site that allows so), at some point there will be swearing, bloody battles and there will be gore (all of them sparsely, but still). If there is anyone with easily bruised sensitivities, this is the moment to walk back and never return.

Also, the speed of the fic won't really pick up until next chapter. I hope you don't get too impatient.

P.S.: My grandma died last Thursday, it delayed this release a bit, I would have posted it last weekend otherwise.

 _Chapter Betaed by: ddzhalev. Posted on: 28/09/2016_

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Chapter 4: The Belated Welcome

Being unconscious for any reason other than sleeping is rarely a pleasant thing for a regular person. Doubly so for a wizard, and even more so for one passing out in a combination of magical backlash from mixing potions that should only be handled by a professional mediwitch (or a bookish enough friend), and exhaustion.

So, Harry slept, feeling like total shite and burning like a piece of bacon on a pan. The last one was a new feeling, one Harry would have been happy to live never knowing, but that was negligible at this point of time. Harry woke up covered in non-magical salves and bandages. He stank, he felt ichy, and he had his dick in a oddly-shaped ceramic pot. The careful removal of said piece of pottery from his beloved, dangling member, made Harry aware of its sloshing watery contents that smelled intensely of urine. It was clear what the pot thingy was for, but the events leading to this point weren't quite so clear, so now he needed to figure out what the hell happened to him after... whatever happened to him to land him in the bed of a room that looked like he imagined a fancy healing room in ancient Egypt should be like.

Harry sat and rubbed his temples. Oddly enough, his glasses remained perched over his nose when everything else had been turned to ribbons and placed on a table in the corner (which probably meant Hermione's beaded bag was under the badly mended black dress Harry had arrived in). There was a kid with dark brown skin sleeping on a chair next to the bed Harry was occupying, and the kid held a piece of white cloth and a basin of water in his limp fingers. The boy was probably supposed to keep an eye on Harry for the night or something. Still, that told him little to nothing of what had landed him where he was.

So, Harry remembered Britain and Voldemort and the Horcrux hunting; now he needed to force his brain to move forwards since that point... but the smell of his own bodily waste was as distracting as it was disgusting. "Accio wand," he called about the only spell he could do without a wand (something he mastered during the camping trip because it kept getting lost between Hermione's books and Ron's messiness). The wand, which oddly enough had been on the bed, landed in his fingers, eager to please, and Harry recognized the piece of wood as Dumbledore's.

"Right, so... that happened," the fact that Harry escaped Gringotts ridding a dragon that wanted to feed him rats was very surreal, but if there was a talent Harry had it was the ability to shrug pretty much anything and focus on the latest mess he had to deal with.

Now, Harry had to guess that he was where he was because someone took him there. Why? Harry knew not, but he was willing to bet that his "savior" at least wasn't one of Voldemort's flock: he would have been tied up then. So, that left him with... pretty much anyone as a suspect: It could be a Muggle or a Wizard, even a magical creature.

A look around the room made him decide that Muggles had more chance of being his hosts, if only because there were no moving portraits or blatantly magical knick-knacks, and everything seemed to be made for humans, so no magical creatures were likely to have anything to do with the place. Conclusion: Harry arrived in a Muggle settlement in, presumably, the past and was not burnt at the stake... which probably scratched a place influenced by the Catholic Church or other ones inclined towards burning witches to death (a small comfort that). And, given the decor of the room Harry woke up in, the dry air and hot, and hot, he would wager he was in Egypt.

The smell of urine hit Harry's nose anew and he decided that further speculation could wait: right now he needed to get rid of that smell. "Evanesco!" Harry chanted, the beam of light accurately banishing the pee in the pot... along with the pot, a balled up sheet and a wooden piece of furniture that vaguely resembled a love seat. Harry had only meant to vanish the urine, but the Elder Wand enhanced his little spell, making his magic reach more objects than it should have. Fabulous, now he would need to figure out the power needed for each spell he may cast all over again.

Harry was about to cast the air-refreshing spell (useful beyond words when getting rid of the smell of a fart by men whose names began with Ronald, and ended in Weasley... which wasn't a rare thing given how much the red-head swallowed during every Hogwarts meal), but, before he could finish the incantation, the sound of footsteps alerted Harry that someone was coming, so he sat up and covered his modesty with the thin pillow that was once under his head.

The man who came in had the same shade of skin as the boy in the room, but his hair was grayed and his face wrinkled. He spoke unintelligible words of welcome with a smile that held both wariness and awe. Harry was familiar with such looks, and, suddenly, the intentions of the hosts who had saved him were clear: they saw Harry as a potential weapon, someone whose usefulness was big enough to keep their hands from cutting his throat. This scenario was an old shoe to the Boy-Who-Lived, certainly more so than men rescuing him from the kindness of their hearts. All in all, they wanted something from him and Harry valued his neck, so he guessed this was good enough of an arrangement for the time being.

Now Harry needed to be careful to keep himself non-threatening while he formulated a plan of action. Harry smiled back and gave a tiny nod. The old man in the room seemed a little less tense and his smile noticeably less forced. The man risked a step forward and barked something, causing the boy sleeping in the chair to fall down gracelessly, with a basin of water falling down his lower body and drenching him from the knees to his bare feet. The man barked something else and the boy jumped from the floor, startled, but obedient, and ran towards a table at the far end of the room (the same one where Harry's black dress had been on), bringing back a piece of silky, almost shiny, yellow fabric and a smaller emerald colored one. The man took the fabrics (clothing of some sort, Harry absently noticed) from the boy with a bit of irritation, smoothing it with a wrinkled hand before handing it to Harry with reverence.

The ceremony of the last gesture was a bit bizarre, but Harry simply took it and unfolded the fabric. It was very fine, silky and soft, and had a garishly yellow rhombus on top of an already too yellow fabric... Harry could not imagine anyone other than Dumbledore not cringing at the idea of wearing such garments. And the thought of his old headmaster sent a pang of pain through Harry's heart upon imagining the long-bearded wizard wearing the hideous thing and a matching horrendous hat.

The man must have been nervous about Harry's odd reaction to the garment, because a foreign tongue started speaking in a panic and he began bowing deeply from his waist. Harry, putting his discomfort aside for the sake of the man, put a hand on the panicked one's shoulder, hoping it would convey that he was not mad at all. It was also clear from the behavior of the old man that this was not his host, but a poor bastard working for someone that sent him to deal with the teenager that came riding a big-ass dragon and might have some dangerous skills that allowed him to tame such a beast...

"Bloody Hell, the dragon!" Harry jumped from the bed, pillow and modesty foregone in his sudden remembrance, letting his exposed little Harry swish like a pendulum with the force of his jump. Harry didn't notice, being too busy trying to be positive and convince himself that the dragon hadn't eaten anyone or destroyed as many buildings as Godzilla on a rampage...

Harry needed to make sure right away that hadn't happened.

He almost fled the room right then, but then he remembered his state of undress. Getting dressed would come first, then he was looking for the dragon: it felt like a plan.

The yellow garbs were easy to put on and soon enough Harry was looking like a parody of a pineapple: his rustled, wild hair only helping to enhance that look. He had no idea what to do with the green sash, though. The old man seemed pleased Harry wore what was brought (even without the sash that Harry didn't wear because he was too hurried to figure out how to make the complicated knot this man had tied around his neck and torso) and gestured towards the door while babbling something that Harry assumed was "follow me". That was good, Harry wanted out and the man wanted to show him around. Harry followed almost right away, but paused to search the discarded pile of clothing he had come with, since his common sense was telling him that leaving the beaded bag in a room he might not come back to would be extremely foolish.

…

"Rejoice, for the Lord of Light has sent us his Chosen Champion, Azor Ahai, who shall lead us by the will of our Lord, and shall burn bright like a torch in the long night that approaches!" A brown haired female priestess dressed in a bright red dress chanted to the people gathered in the plaza of Meereen; and all who had heard her listened raptly, for the coming of such a hero had been prophesized by the red priestess many moons before the giant dragon had reached the town, rising in the sky like the morning sun. The sky, red like the robes the Red Priests so clearly favored, had looked as though it was on fire: it was a sign from god, and they had been around to see the second coming of a legend so great, his memory had survived for over eight thousand years.

The masses knelt and prayed with fervor, believing the words of the woman, worshiping the new hero as though the boy they had hardly seen for more than a second (if they had seen him at all) was the one to break their chains and bring them freedom. But such was human nature: fickle and foolish, common men never stopped to think of what is best for themselves in the long run. And, like the Old Gods were now foregone in most of Westeros, so the Mother of Dragons was ignored by many of the men and women she had saved.

Varys was the audience for the circus of the fickle and foolish and, as he watched the circus unfold, he listened with as much attention as the new devotees of a boy that had no reason to care for these people. "Foolish," Varys murmured in a velvety tone, calm and unmoving, like a rock at the bottom of a pond. Lesser men would choose to move with haste with no thought of the consequences, not waiting long enough to see if the gamble made by letting in the stranger would pay off. However, the eunuch trusted the judgement of Tyrion Lannister... and yet, he had sent one of his little birds to sing a song as soon as the dragon rider was taken in as a guest. Then, when the whispers of the believers of the Lord of Light grew into shouts, he had sent another of his little birds to fly with the latest song.

Varys had no doubt that, just like he had sent his little birds to fly and sing, so had all the spies of everyone who had ears in the town moved as soon as the unknown dragon rider put a foot in Meereen's plaza. And, if the eunuch's estimate was correct, the boats that would cross the sea to Westeros would carry word of the happenings in the lands freed by the Targaryen princess.

It was also more than enough time for the slavers of nearby towns to have started plotting and planning for their next move. Would they be cautious? Or would they be moved by greed to try and snatch the loyalty of the boy -young, and thus easily manipulable- that had come from lands unknown and whose loyalty and ambition were completely mystery.

The boy was a threat and a promise of power wrapped in a conundrum. Such a unique being would take the spotlight of many events to come in the future. And the strong light bestowed upon him was sure to cast a great shadow for those who dwelled in the darkness to set things in motion.

It was only a matter of time until the calm before the storm came to an end.

…

On the way to... wherever they were going, Harry saw many men wearing similar clothes to the one provided to him, but those were of rougher-looking material, in dull shades of yellow, brown or green, and all of them had sashes with elaborate knots, mostly tied around the neck, shoulders and torso. Harry felt he was breaking some unspoken rule by not wearing something everyone else with _no exception_ had on their clothes (at least the males who weren't in soldier uniforms), but he was not the kind of person to worry much about fashion. At least, not after wearing the hand-me-downs of Dudley, the human whale, since he was a baby.

Still, Harry hated the horrid, baggy camisole these people gave him to wear; then again, when in Rome do as Romans do (or something like that).

The little tour of the stone structure they were in was lengthier than Harry had anticipated, if only because of the sheer size of the place. Also, Harry noted that every person they met had dark skin and wary eyes, and most of them had scars that seemed to wrap around their necks, like a collar. Before Harry could make up any theories for the wounds, they reached a big room made from smooth, almost polished rocks that was filled only with columns and a short staircase leading to a stone chair, no, not chair, a throne. And, upon said throne sat the dwarf he vaguely remembered meeting, flanked by the pretty woman from... yesterday? Last week? (How long was he unconscious anyway?) and a thin but muscled dark skinned man with a stoic expression. Harry was almost sure he had seen the guy before as well.

The dwarf got up, opening his arms and gesturing around as he spoke something pompous-sounding. Harry could only guess at the meaning of the words. He didn't want to be rude, manners having been hammered into him with a frying pan since his earliest memories, but Harry didn't have any idea what he was being told. These people must know he was unable to understand a thing, so they probably were weighting his body language, instead of paying attention to whatever he might say.

So, in the end, it inevitably came down to charades and, yep, they did the whole Tarzan-ish introduction of hitting their chests and pointing to themselves, then to the other person, who had no idea what they were saying. So, the dwarf was Tyrion Lannister, the pretty lady was Meesandhey (or something like that), and the dark-skinned soldier something that sounded like "Toro Cornudo". There was also a bald man with pale skin that joined them after Harry figured out the names of those three, said man got introduced to him as Varys.

When it was Harry's turn to introduce himself, he hesitated to give his full name; after all, he was unsure of where or when in the past he was, and the Potters, he had learned from Lupin, had once been a very numerous family with great importance across the globe for several centuries before Harry was born. Which meant that there was a chance that someone might recognize his last name; in fact, with Harry's rotten luck, the one learning of his claimed relations to the Potters would be an enemy trying to kill Harry's ancestors.

There was also the worry of Harry changing some big event in the past, damaging the future he was from by accident. He had heard that was a topic in some Muggle films, like 'Back to the Future'. Not that he ever got to see those movies, but he knew the gist of them: someone traveled in time, damaged something and ruined the future, then they had to go back and fix things. Even the wizarding erudite crowd seemed to agree that time was a delicate thing that should not be messed with, lest causality damn everything they are and have ever been: time-tampering gone wrong could tear the very fabric of reality and destroy the universe... this particular fact was a horrifying realization, especially considering that a time-turner was so carelessly given to a 12 year old girl so she could attend more classes.

Wizarding society didn't make a lick of sense sometimes.

In a nutshell, Harry Potter decided to introduce himself as just Harry.

Hopefully they would not try to force his last name out of him.

But, in this world, for a man with a dragon to claim no last name after making such a long pause... it was clear for everyone listening that the boy was hiding his heritage.

...

Tyrion had given instructions to lead their (hopefully not hostile) guest to the throne room so this background setting would work to highlight that they were in charge of the land. The subtle power play didn't seem to impress the boy at all, but the green-eyed guest remained as cordial and non-threatening as Tyrion had guessed he would. Tyrion had also guessed (correctly) that the boy would be anxious to see the dragon, so he had led him to it.

It was... an interesting reunion of dragon and rider. Not because anything remarkable happened, but because Tyrion had never seen a dragon and its rider interact, not counting the few seconds it took Daenerys Storm-born to get on top of her black dragon and fly away.

The boy and the dragon spotted each other in the plaza, both looking equally relieved. The boy babbled as he carefully and slowly got close, the dragon sniffed the air, getting near the boy by smell and not sight. A blind dragon? Interesting; but such an impairment wasn't enough to put the dwarf at ease, since the beast would not need to see to aimlessly burn all around it.

As Tyrion watched the boy and his dragon interact, the boy gaining confidence at the moment, he could not help but suspect that the bond between the two was a new thing, be it from a recent meeting or because there was a fight between the two (not all that likely, since the dragon was not being ridden by a corpse) and they were building ties. It was a thought worthy of dwelling on with a cup of wine in his hand and his ass in a comfortable chair.

Right now though? It was time to give their mysterious guest an appropriate welcome.

...

Harry's meeting with the dragon was a lot more friendly that he had expected. In fact, that such a frightening beast could act somewhat docile, going so far as sniffing Harry like a dog would, made Harry feel like he had finally understood where Hagrid's passion for collecting magical creatures that could kill in the most horrifying of ways came from. Well... most of those creatures. Harry would never, ever, understand how Hagrid could love Aragog like a kid loves a teddy bear.

That Hagrid would have approved on Harry's new "pet" made him feel as relieved of his sanity as that time so long ago when Harry was the only one among his circle who could see the Thestrals pulling the Hogwarts carriage, and Luna Lovewood (who had been pointed out to him as the school's famous lunatic) had assured him he was as sane as she was. After getting to know the blonde, Harry would learn to love her way of seeing the world, but, at that one moment, he had seriously felt uneasy with her comment.

With thoughts of Luna on his mind, he idly wondered how she would have handled being the one to get into this mess. She probably would have greeted them all airily and spoken about Nargles, walking to them barefoot and with an absent smile, while a dragon uglier than a lovechild of Voldemort and Snape stood behind her. Harry couldn't help but smile at the mental image.

The dragon, feeling Harry's joy through a bond that both could feel was there like a phantom limb, let out a snort that messed up Harry's hair even more and left it smelling like smoke. Harry laughed, not knowing why, but the emotions he was picking up felt like getting a big hug after winning a Quidditch match. In fact, Harry was finding himself wanting to spend more time with his dragon...

His dragon? Since when did Harry see the dragon as his? And yet, as he stood in front of it, Harry knew that he wouldn't be able to let go of it. Maybe after getting back home and saving the day, Harry would go live with Charlie in Romania. It would be nice to see Norberta again, to see how big she had gotten. Dragons were said to grow very fast their first years, after which the growing slowed down more and more as time passed, though it was agreed by draconologist that dragons never stopped growing. And Harry's dragon was as big as it was ugly.

After what felt like not enough time, the dwarf called Harry and gestured for him to follow back into the building. The dragon growled sensing Harry's discomfort, but a pat on its nose and a few calming words allowed Harry to go with the little man. Harry had to admire the bravery of a man so short getting so close to a dragon: that one would have been in Gryffindor, no doubts about that.

The walk Harry took along with Tyrion, Varys, Meesandhey and the dark-skinned soldier with the hard to pronounce name, was not a long one; especially not compared to the indoors tour Harry got by the old man that had gotten him out from the infirmary. The path that Harry was guided through was made of the same kind of stone that every other part of the structure had been so far, but it was clearly a different set of hallways since they had bigger windows and some tapestries on the walls. Given how Spartan everything Harry had seen before was, the decorations here made him aware that he was being led to the fancy areas of the pyramid... because, yes, he was inside a pyramid (which he saw when he came back from visiting his dragon), which made Harry sure he was spot on with his theory of being in Egypt. Not that being in Egypt meant much to him, since he knew nothing about the place, except that it was in a desert area, there was the Nile River somewhere, and they mummified their pharaohs and stuck them into pyramids like the one Harry was in. And, to be honest, if some of the cartoons he had glimpsed on the TV were historically correct, then maybe the scars on everyone's necks had something to do with slavery and pushing around big chunks of rock to make giant tombs...

"Harry." Harry stopped his musings when his name was called from nearby. The dwarf made a snobbish gesture towards a chair that looked comfortable, then sat down. To Harry's surprise, the dwarf got a bottle of wine and poured some in a simple metal cup. Only then Harry realized how parched his throat was. Harry took it, brought it to his lips and took a sip with no worries about poison (if they wanted him harmed, they would have done so when he was sleeping), then smacked his lips after emptying it's content. Wine was a new taste to Harry, decidedly stronger than the butterbeer that wizards in England consumed. Needless to say, "Harry The Freak" would never get the chance to get a sip at the Dursleys. Hell, he was sure that if he ever asked, rumors of Harry having alcohol problems "like his good for nothing alcoholic parents" would spread all around Privet Drive, maybe even all of Surrey.

Harry didn't like the taste of wine.

"Thanks," he smiled politely to his host, who refilled Harry's cup, then looked a tad disappointed at Harry's clear reluctance to drink any more. Harry was afraid to have offended the man, but then the dwarf gestured to some dark skinned people dressed in opaque yellow and green, and the men brought over a jar of water from which Harry greedily took two cups.

When Harry was done drowning himself in the glorious (if a little warm) water, the man said something Harry didn't understand, then grandiosely gestured towards the door they had come through before. It was very good thing that Harry was done drinking or he would have choked on it.

Women. Gorgeous, dark-skinned women wearing... well, "clothes" would be an euphemism. The silk on their bodies was practically see-through and was less than the amount of jewelry they had on. One of the women, with a completely bare chest and delicate purple skirt that left nothing to the imagination, led the group which was, much to Harry's dismay, walking towards him after the dwarf said Merlin-knows-what and signaled to him with a raised cup and a cocky smile. Harry tensed horribly when the first woman, the one with the bare chest, sat right on his lap.

For some reason, the first thing that came to Harry's mind when the woman all but threw herself at him, was that the women of the dwarf's harem were jumping him, looking all gorgeous, and he, Harry, was wearing yellow. This thought was soon replaced by the normal teenaged dirty mental images as well as the knowledge that, in some cultures, orgies used to be quite normal, and even a religious practice... not that Harry had ever heard of such a tradition outside of one of Hermione's side-rants about Romans, which was prompted by something Ron said. Harry didn't remember what his best mate said, but he had the vague notion it was something inappropriate and historically inaccurate.

And so, with the knowledge that his virtue was in danger, Harry was trying to find any exit... all the while trying to keep certain bits of him in his "pants" from turning into a unicorn horn. The couple of seconds it took Harry to choose a path to run, made it too late to actually bolt away. Eyes turning back to the front, Harry's cheekbones brushed a round fleshy mound. Then, before he could say Quidditch, Harry's face was trapped between the woman's twin Bludgers, his gaping mouth making him swallow a Galleon-sized, dark-brown nipple when he tried to look away at the same time the woman moved forwards to push herself against him. All the water Harry had drunk must have evaporated by the heat of his blush, because he once again felt his mouth dry completely.

Harry was lost. Truly lost. And he was half-waiting for a slap to hit his cheek while the woman on top of him screeched like a banshee... which was't happening at all.

The woman, on the other hand, seemed to have everything figured out, she was calm and not offended at all. She looked at at him with a sultry smile, moved her perky tits seductively, cupping them and playing with her assets with the look of a Hippogriff in mating season.

Well, fuck.

Harry, startled out of his wits and feeling more out of place than the giant squid in the astronomy tower, pushed her away by her shoulders and saw her gorgeous Bludgers jiggle a bit. The woman looked at Harry with a questioning look, as if she could not understand why he would push her away instead of doing... Harry had no idea what that woman expected him to do! (well he kind of did, but he was not opening that can of Flobberworms) And how did you politely ask in Egyptian for a woman to get off your lap?

Harry had no idea what led to this.

He had no idea.

He needed help.

Harry's eyes roamed around until he met the dwarf's, who looked as surprised as the woman that was still in Harry's lap. And so, the dwarf didn't say or do anything, the surprise on his scarred face tinting with amusement at Harry's predicament. Gryffindor bravery was worth nothing in this scenario: Harry was about to faint because of the sheer panic he was feeling.

Harry looked back to the woman, who soon got a look of amusement that surpassed the dwarf's. There was a gleam of something in her eyes now as she licked her luscious lips. Harry didn't like it one bit, not at all, especially not since his blood was boiling in his veins and flying south at the maximum speed of a Firebolt.

Experienced hands grabbed Harry to keep him in place, her touch both soft, yet harder to move away from than an iron cuff. She leaned down for a kiss...

Now a kiss was no longer uncharted territory to Harry: Ginny had given him a very passionate French kiss on his 17th birthday. But getting a kiss from a near-naked stranger? That was new. Maybe here in ancient Egypt it was normal to have naked women jumping your guests' bones, but Harry was English and a gentleman. So, as any English gentleman would do in this situation (or how Harry imagined such events would unfold), he pushed the woman from him firmly, then moved his hands to Hermione's beaded bag, and pulled out a robe to wrap around the woman's shoulder.

If the woman had looked like a sultry panther before, then this time she looked like a startled owl. Harry could not blame her for it, since his beaded bag had a notice-me-not charm which, to a muggle, would make it seem like Harry was pulling the cloak from thin air. Harry had been reluctant so far to use magic in front of these people, even after arriving on top of a dragon (which, he assumed, universally meant that he was magical), because he thought that it was better to stay on the side of caution. But in this situation? Was there any other approach Harry could take?

Yes. Yes there was... No, there was no other course of action! Harry, unlike the other boys in his year, was a romantic. He wanted his first time and all his kisses to mean something. He wanted to find a woman to settle down and form a family with. Ginny's flushed face as their lips parted, and her shyly spoken "Happy birthday Harry" popped into Harry's mind's eye and made him feel like he was betraying her, even when the two of them never got together.

The worst part of all? Harry was sure that these women were either slaves or prostitutes. And he had had enough talks about the damage of slavery to people's psyche from Hermione that he was positive that, by accepting the approaches of this woman, he would be hurting her, despite the fact that she was the one trying to seduce him. Of course, other talks from Hermione had been about respecting people's traditions and understanding cultural practices (and, weird as it might sound in modern cultures, he figured that since he was in the past... and if orgies in Egypt was like those in Rome... so yeah, Harry could very well be insulting these people's gods by not "digging in").

The pro side of having things go smoothly for Harry was tossed out of the window for reasons beyond his being a romantic prude. Much as he understood the need to respect people's traditions, abide by their laws and...*cough*. Anyway, if Harry having it easy (and fun) would be hurting someone, then Harry would not be amenable to engage in such actions.

Once the woman in front of him wasn't as exposed as a broodmare for sale, Harry glared at the dwarf, arms crossed in front of his chest.

That Harry was tomato red didn't subtract from the force of his glare... much.

...

After a very awkward couple of minutes, Harry was led into his room. He was glad to be left in solitude so he could calm himself. Merlin's balls! That was... that was... well, fuck if Harry knew.

He was sure sleep would not come easy.

Thankfully, his defiance of these people's traditions didn't seem to offend the dwarf that was keeping him under his roof.

A knock on Harry's door made him look up, but he did not need to open it: the woman he had covered with a cloak opened the door, her smile a bit more demure than before, it carrying a spark of attraction that seemed almost genuine. The keyword being "almost". It was odd to see the woman come here so late at night displaying attraction, because he was sure that the woman had looked grateful that he had refused her advances, and the smile she had given him before, for protecting her modesty, had been heartfelt.

She returned Harry's cloak, which had been covering her body. This time instead of translucent purple silk and jewellery, she wore nothing under Harry's robe but her birthday suit and a cascade of black curls that matched the ones on top of her... you know what.

It didn't end there. All the women from before started finally registered within his line of sight. The females streamed into the bedroom, each as naked and seductive as the one before. And they were blocking the room's only exit.

...

Tyrion poured wine in a cup and took a generous sip, a big smile on his face.

"Was it wise to send whores to please our guest? He looked quite aghast at the idea." Missandei asked the little man with a frown.

"You know nothing of men," Tyrion declared wisely. "All men have the same desires, this boy is no exception. He was not refusing out of disinterest but inexperience. I had a squire once, his name was Pod. Good lad, quite shy at first, but when the time came to be a man? The best whores of King's Landing were so impressed that they allowed him to fuck them for free."

"You are sure of this choice then?" Grey Worm asked with a stern face. Clearly, this man was doubting Tyrion's unparalleled wisdom about fucking, which was only defeated by his talents at drinking and pissing. Tyrion reigned in the impulse of making a joke about how two heads think better than one, and how the Unsullied lacked the most important one of them in this stance... it would be in poor taste to mock someone forever denied the joys of a warm pussy... Unless it was Varys. Tyrion was perfectly fine mocking the dicklessness of the Master of Whispers.

"I'm positive that, come morning, that boy will be thankful to me for providing him with Meereen's treats."

...

Harry wanted to vomit: Apparating always sat bad with him. Thankfully, he managed to pry his bits out of that woman's hand before she made a grab and tried to polish his broom.

His breathing returning to normal, he let himself rest against the rough paw of his dragon. The panic from moments before rapidly starting to abate with the soothing presence of the giant magical beast. Harry looked up at the cloudless night sky and sighed: to think, he ran away from a horde of gorgeous naked birds to spend the night with a dragon.

Sirius would have been so disappointed.

 _To Be Continued._

.

 **AN:** After last chapter, I got a request to not get exclamations like "Merlin" get into the fic because it would ruin it. I agreed those were stupid, but they are cannon... and I really REALLY wanted to use them to ruin the innuendos because, honestly, I found that hilarious.

 **Reminder: The poll on the name of the dragon is up.**

 **Question: What do you think the pairing should be: Missandei x Harry or Daenerys x Harry?.** I can see myself doing either, but wanted to know what you guys think.

I originally had planned Danny X Harry, but after season 6, I got annoyed with Danny... but then, I realized that since this is taking place before GoT S6, I can change whatever annoys me of her, then pair Harry with the Daenerys I used to love. And yet... why do I feel that Missandei is a lot more compatible with Harry than Danny? They would make such a cute couple, and I 100% ship them... but Danny and Harry could have a very interesting romance building (the same would happen with missandei, since there would be the love triangle with Grey Worm). Why, oh why, is it so hard to decide in life?!

So, Missandei x Harry or Daenerys x Harry? I really would love to know what you think and WHY you think I should chose one or the other. I still will decide in the end, but I want a second opinion (and a third, and a forth; so on a so forth).

 **Please leave me a review!** It IS my first time writing "smut", so feedback there is appreciated.


	5. Half a Step Forwards

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Don't care. Writing this for free.

 **AN:** Hi there everyone! Gotta say, the pairing for the fic got a lot more interest than I thought it would (comments about that overshadowed the magical inuendo, pity). Also, the name of the dragon has been chosen, hope you all are happy with it. Also, I got to say that a lot of detailed reviews for the pairing made my muse think a lot of scenes and scenarios that will enrich this fic a few chapters from this one.

This early update comes to you thanks to the fact that **LAST CHAPTER GOT OVER 200 REVIEWS!** Wohoo! Seriously, that was a milestone I didn't think this would break until Season 7's teasers came about and fanfiction readers returned to this site to stall the anxiety.

Also, as promised to one of my readers, I reduced the number of parenthesis in this chapter. I hope the reading is now more pleasant for everyone.

 **Warning:** This chapter has angst and deserves to be M.

AN Edit 23-10-2016: I changed the mistake about using the Gryffindor sword as a butcher knife. Thanks for catching that mistake.

The name of the dragon that won in the poll came to you thanks to: _Hulkishpower_ (If anyone else recommended, not voted, that name let me know so I can credit you too).

Enjoy!

 _Published on: 16-10-2016 Betaed by: ddzhalev_

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 _"To go North, you must journey South. To reach the West, you must go East. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow"._

Quaithe to Daenerys Targaryen, Game of Thrones, season 2.

Chapter 5: Half a step forwards

There are people whose mastery of a subject is wide enough to find the right answer for every mystery to be found in every corner of continent; and thus, these people might feel overconfident to the point of forgetting that the sea has mysteries of its own. So, as a self-proclaimed man of the world, Tyrion had been stumped to find out that their guest ran away instead of doing what a man ought to do when naked whores parade in his room. It was as if his guest had no cock at all... No, that is not necessarily true, not all men would let their basest desires take over (theoretically, that is). Sure, Tyrion could not think of anyone who would choose blue balls over pussy; in fact, even the highly honorable Ned Stark had succumbed to his cock's will while away on the battlefield and sown his seed away from home, then returned with a bastard.

The only man Tyrion would ever imagine pushing away whores would be Varys, and having anything at all in common with Varys was a blow to anyone's masculinity on principle.

Worse that the discovery that he wasn't all-knowing in his favorite area of study, was the fact that he had no idea how detrimental the latest development would be to the goal of winning the dragon rider's favor.

Tyrion rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Missandei, make sure that these women get their coin." The beautiful former slave gave a demure nod and began handing a coin to each whore. Once the whores had what they were promised, they left the room. Now that Tyrion, Missandei and Grey Worm were alone, Grey Worm spoke firmly, "You were wrong."

Instead of replying right away, Tyrion took a sip of the wine in his half-empty cup. What had been a drink served for a celebration of soon to come benefits, no longer tasted as sweet. "Our young guest might not have reacted as predicted, but this result has not been entirely unfavorable to us."

Missandei frowned, puzzlement clear in her pretty brown eyes. "What could you have gained, when it was clear our guest was not appreciative of your actions?" It was an impressive talent, Tyrion decided, being able to speak of both his fuck up and the boy's lack of fucking in such polite terms.

"Insight," Tyrion revealed confidently, "we now know more of Harry than we did yesterday. Life is like this: we do what we believe is right, then we learn to see the good and the bad resulting from it."

"So you were wrong," Grey Worm insisted. Missandei smiled a bit.

Tyrion was not amused.

"The important thing is to plan our next step: reach common grounds of communication. I want you," he pointed towards Missandei, "to get ready to teach Harry the common tongue of Westeros. By being able to communicate in that language it would make it a lot easier for us to reach an understanding; not to mention the extra benefit of him having to rely on us instead of the locals. Speaking about locals, I believe it would be for the best to double the security for the time being," Tyrion looked pointedly at Grey Worm, "as you might have noticed, the Red Priests have been stirring the people. It would be in our best interest to keep the masses away from our guest for the time being."

Grey Worm nodded, as did Missandei. It would seem that, in spite of Tyrion's little mishap, they were still willing to trust him and follow his orders without hesitation which was... convenient, of course, but also worried Tyrion quite a bit: obviously the effect of being born and raised as obedient slaves was quite deep.

Thankfully, Tyrion could see that they had loosened up a lot in the time he had shared with them; which didn't mean Tyrion could not speed up the process with the most relaxing substance invented by man: alcohol.

Tyrion smiled. Maybe he could get back at them for making fun of him before.

...

Sleep was not coming for Harry. He laid inside the tent he had shared with his friends, finding reminders of them here and there. Now that he had time to actually sit and think, he couldn't help but feeling nostalgic. Of course, the experiences of the last day were also bothering him in ways that had nothing to do with depression. So he would jump from arousal to moping in a way even he could see was pathetic. He was pathetic.

Harry covered his face with his hands, and the smell of flowery perfume that had sunk in his fingertips brought memories of warm, naked skin. Skin he had touched, even sucked, even if by accident. The phantom taste of sweat and something enticingly female danced on his lips. He could feel the ragged breath, lusty eyes and smile that held promises of endless pleasure zeroing in on him. He was aroused, visibly so, the thin yellow garb he had on doing very little to hide the state of Harry's lower wand. On instinct, his hands inched downwards. The electric feel of clumsy hands bumping the tip of an erection made Harry gasp, and soon he was moving his hand up and down, squeezing experimentally. Never before had Harry's body felt so much pleasure; then again, he had never had the right stimulus needed for getting hard wood, nor the chance to take advantage of it. So Harry pumped himself, with more speed than talent and no grace whatsoever. The feeling built up until he was overwhelmed by the new sensations and soon his eyes were seeing little white dots that were no less in number than the Christmas lights in the Great Hall during December.

Harry's mind was foggy and unfocused for a few minutes. Then, as his mind came back to normal, he felt guilty and so very filthy: the sticky and thick substance on his hand, belly and inner legs felt like wet white glue, sticking the word disgusting to every spot of skin it touched. How did something that felt so amazing a few moments before make him feel so horrible now? Was he guilty because he jacked off to the memory of that woman? She flashed him and jumped on his lap, for Merlin's sake! Even as pathetically filthy as he felt, he knew he was being irrational.

Harry took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He tried to bring forth all the knowledge about adulthood that he had gathered: it was not much. Truth being told, he had learned more about intimate relationships by listening to Fred and George make crude comments and jokes towards Percy after they found out about the latter's crush on Penelope Clearwater. If Harry had had any doubt of where a dick went or what foreplay was... then the very visual hand gestures, the fake moans (that sounded disturbingly female) and the odd wiggle of a tongue they made cleared up Harry's doubts that day. It was a rather embarrassing, yet educational day; and Harry had not only learned about sex, he had also had found out that Percy had inherited Molly Weasley's furious yelling timber. Of course, his new knowledge made Harry's forming crush on Cho ten times more awkward, and he was unable to look at Hermione's eyes for a week.

After recalling what little meager knowledge he had gained thanks to the twins and by accidentally overhearing random teenage talks, Harry focused on the shame he was feeling. He recalled, with no small amount of disgust, that one time when he had been cleaning the windows of the top floor of number 4 Privet Drive, he had happened to hear thumps and what sounded like the cry of a dying whale coming from Dudley's room. Aunt Petunia, who had just returned from shopping, had rushed up looking worried on the behalf of her Diddy Dudleykins, opening the door without knocking and revealing his cousin without pants. Harry's aunt's wails of her baby becoming a man, and the impromptu celebration banquet, had made Dudley look as though he would die from shame. It was the first time in history that Dudley had ever refused to eat, much less step in the kitchen.

To this day, Harry thanked the gods that aunt Petunia's body had been blocking his line of sight of an image that would have tormented him for life.

Harry had no doubts that, if it had been himself getting caught with a hand on his privates, then he would have been beaten black and blue; which is why he had never tried to explore himself in Privet Drive. Similarly, Hogwarts was also not an option for "self-discovery" since the dormitory was shared and Harry was unable to get in the mood with tree other males in the room. So this had been Harry's first experience getting wanky and the Boy-Who-Lived decided that it was understandable that he felt such an irrational shame.

Once he had stopped feeling like a freak for no good reason, Harry realized he could have gotten killed by panicking in the company of strangers, if they had truly meant him harm. Harry had followed them with the intent of keeping "constant vigilance", but a flash of booty and *bam*: all the experience he had gathered by almost getting murdered on a yearly basis went out of the window. Harry had been defenseless and alone, the friends that he had gotten used to having around to watch his back wouldn't have saved his ass if any of the women had decided to stab him or something.

Harry was alone, so there would be no Hermione supplying knowledge and making all his plans for survival, there would be no Ron forming improvised strategies for him. If Harry wanted to survive long enough to get back home, he needed to learn to rely on himself. Sure, the dragon guarding the tent would be a big help scaring away people, but that didn't mean it was a real solution for his troubles.

Feeling no sleepiness whatsoever despite the late hours of the night (or was it really early on the next day?), Harry sat and pondered what his resources were, how long his food and water would last, what little he could do with wandless magic, what spells he could risk with the Elder Wand. If all else failed, he had the Sword of Gyffindor. Harry might not know anything about swordsmanship beyond what end to stick in his enemies, but that had been enough to slay a basilisk at twelve, so he figured it could be of help. Still, he felt it was a pity that Hermione's library-like knowledge - which Harry relied on more than everything he had learnt from his professors combined - didn't include any form of Muggle combat ways. In fact, Harry was willing to bet that it never occurred to her to bring a book that taught sword-fighting to their Horcrux Hunting even as a curiosity.

She also failed to provide information about wandless magic; had it not been for what little Ron had picked up on the subject while growing up in the magical word, Harry would be unable to even Accio his wand if it ever got stolen from him.

Harry yawned. Lazy crimson rays wafted into the tent's opening, and the tiredness of the past day hit him. It would be for the best for him to sleep a bit before he faced the outside world. He curled on top of Ron's bed (his was stained and dirty after his wanking) then, with sheets wrapped around himself to fend off the coldness of the desert night. He fell asleep with half-thought plans and wearing nothing but his boxers. A less than pristine yellow garb was now peeking out from the nearest trashcan.

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Magic is a force of nature, it is as ever-existing and ever-changing as water: it might turn into steam with the heat and into ice when cold; but, with time, it always returns to being water; you can take away the water from a river, but can never stop it from refilling when the rainy season comes. Water can be visible, but it can also be subtle: making a home in the sea, bellow the earth or up in the clouds. Water is the life that flows in the body and flows in the blood.

Blood is a vessel for magic, and magic is a force that knows what has been and will be.

Magic is ubiquitous, sees everything and remembers everything. And, sometimes, magic tells tales to those who would listen and shows things to those that see. Magic touches the body when awake and the mind when it sleeps. And so, in dreams magic speaks to men who cannot understand until the events that are forewarned occur.

Most of the time, understanding comes too late.

White mist dancing in the ground emulating the patterns of sand moved by the wind. A woman with silver-blonde hair steps forwards, her lilac dress moving into an unseen wind. The air whispers, yet remains unmoving. The soil is bare yet ethereal, and the trees that look like silhouettes in turbulent waters, are unwelcoming. There is the sound of millions of tiny steps, a sound so soft human ears should never be able to pick up. Purple eyes search for the source, and see tiny spiders moving away in rivers, all moving as though they are running from something at the end of the canopy. She reaches a big, black, human-shaped stone that shines like crystal in candlelight.

 **"The glass candles are burning."** An almost unfamiliar female voice calls from behind the blonde and she turns around searching for the owner, she finds herself alone. **"Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal"**

When the words were over, the woman, Daenerys Stormborn, last carrier of the Targaryen name, was standing in front of another female. Quaithe of Asshai, her masked face and her piercing eyes remaining unchanged from the last time Daenerys saw her. The warning first given to the Mother of Dragons so many moons ago in Qarth seemed to be echoed by the fog and the forest. Daenerys gives a step forward to touch the woman as though spell-bound, but, as pale fingers reach the rhombus of lacquered wood hiding the Sadowbinder's face, wood and tanned flesh turn back into the black stone, then the stone turns to ice that collapses like flakes of dust. Snowflakes had covered the world around Daenerys until all she could see was the pure white of snow. A chill that had nothing to do with the coldness around made Daenerys turn around. Two glowing dots of blue stare at her from the distance.

Purple eyes opened abruptly. The forest hidden in the mist and snow had vanished, replaced by a patch of hard soil cracked by the sun. There was the smell of sweat and horse piss, and her ears easily picked up the sound of a cracking fire and the snores of a nearby Dothraki warrior. She looked up to the sky, where sun and moon peeked from opposite corners. It had all been a dream, albeit not an ordinary one. There was meaning hidden in what she saw, but she could not grasp it anymore than she would be able to grasp the stars.

She closed her eyes and let the words of a warning almost forgotten replay in her head until the Dothraki tribe she was traveling with rose from their slumber and readied to go. She stood up, not allowing anyone to give her the order as she joined the march. Her shoes that once had been sturdy now were peppered with holes in their soles and she could feel the land with every step she took. She was dirty and exhausted but she did not sweat or wither under a sun so hot it started scorching the skin of men. She didn't lower her head or stop, even when her feet bled and the wind blew dust to her eyes: she was not a delicate lady but a queen and a conqueror.

She might no longer have a khal or a khalasar, but she was still a khaleesi. And she would make the men humiliating her pay in fire and blood.

On the horizon, the gates of Vaes Dothrak were now close enough to see the giant horse statues that threatened to stomp on anyone landing a foot on the Godsway. Daenerys smiled sadly with the memories the place evoked, the travel she had made to get there, her old Khalasar and her husband, Khal Drogo, whose ties to her were the only reason she had been spared the fate of being mounted until she got ripped apart.

In her heart, there was a sliver of worry about what would happen after she was presented to the Dosh Khaleen. She did not want to join the other wives of the past Khals, for her destiny was to be found on her birthright lands... but if she was deemed unworthy to belong to the Dosh Khaleen, she would have no more protection than that of the women the Dothraki tribes took with them as loot in their plundering.

But, beyond that sliver of worry, there was a certainty that her tale wouldn't end in this place.

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Green eyes stared at the plaza the giant pale dragon had claimed as its own, then blinked. A tent had been set up in the wingspan of the beast. Clearly, it belonged to the dragon tamer, for not even the bravest fool would dare put a place of rest right beside such a deadly creature if it wasn't under their command. Where the boy had gotten the tent from was something that got Tyrion the tiniest bit curious, but it was ultimately unimportant.

The odor of perfume was the first thing alerting Tyrion he had company in the corridor he had chosen to overlook the plaza. Varys walked to stand a few steps behind Tyrion. "Many songs are being sung about the events of last night".

Great! First Grey Worm and Missandei and now Varys, would everyone mock him for his miscalculation? Moodily, Tyrion replied in mock magnanimity "Rightly so: first thousands of men without a cock moving around in Meereen, then a boy who should have been able to fill this city's pussies turned them down. It made me so sad that I gave the whores enough coin to get a horse drunk."

Varys, unperturbed, looked down to the dwarf and let out a tiny smile. "How curious, the songs that have reached my ears contain a different tale." Tyrion looked at the perfumed eunuch with confusion. Varys elaborated, "It would seem our guest's actions were taken in a rather favorable light by the women of the trade."

"You are saying that whores were happy to get rejected?" it was absurd. Sure, getting coin for doing nothing was probably a good thing for anyone, but one would think rejection of free service would equate to an insult in their profession.

Instead of answering the Little Lion's question, Varys gestured velvety to the window, "I believe it is time to approach the young dragon yet again." Tyron looked out the window once again, clearly seeing someone dressed in black stepping out from the tent in the plaza.

"So it seems," Tyrion smiled wryly. He had no idea what kind of mood Harry Dragon Rider would be in after last night.

"I leave you to it then," Varys said. Tyrion nodded.

Before the dwarf could walk away, the effeminate voice of the Master of Whispers came to him from the hallway "After all, it is a known fact that welcoming guests is your area of expertise."

Ticked, Tyrion turned around to make a snide retort in response to the underhanded mockery from the Master of Whispers. Varys was nowhere in sight.

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Harry stepped out of the wizard's tent, the sun was already high up in the sky, making him close his eyes momentarily to adjust to the change of light. He opened his eyes a moment later, then busied himself taking down the tent. The heat of the day felt more intense than it did the day before, the black fabric of Harry's school uniform was absorbing the heat to the point that Harry felt tempted to stop taking down the tent, get back inside and wear his worn Muggle clothes. He resisted the temptation, nevertheless, because it was better to bear with the heat and look presentable, than feel a little less heated and look like a pauper. Especially so when the only nice looking clothes he had could actually blend in a bit with the fashion of the era... or at least with what little had seen around the place the day before.

That done, Harry moved to greet his dragon, touching it's snout with affection. It moved it's head forwards, bumping Harry, making him loose his balance. Harry fell and smiled at what felt like a greeting.

"I believe we had agreed before I couldn't keep calling you dragon all the time, didn't we?" Harry asked his dragon, which continued to stare forwards in indifference. "I realized that wizard names are no good, since their naming sense is bloody barmy. I also don't want to give you some name we need to change later because I have no idea if you are a boy or a girl so..." Harry had thought long and hard on it. He thought of names that sounded cool, then names that could work for either gender. The names he thought of after getting a measly two hours of sleep ranged from names of dragons in muggle literature (well, the one he knew from Lord of the Rings) to dragons that were mentioned in books about Merlin. In the end, Harry figured that, instead of giving names of people, he could give the dragon the name of a place, since those should be equally appropriate for either gender.

Valhalla, that was the first name he considered, and he was so tempted to name it so, because it sounded so incredibly cool... but Harry shook his head in the end. Valhalla was a viking word. It could spell a myriad of trouble if Harry and his dragon were thought to belong to a pillaging and raping society that, for all he knew, was still active and making enemies all around the world. After much deliberation, and with a heavy heart, he gave up the coolest name he thought he could come up with and started thinking of giving the dragon, who was his last link to home, the name England but... it didn't feel right.

In the end, Harry decided to name the dragon "Albion", the earliest known name of Great Britain. It felt appropriate. Not to mention that if people from the past recognized the name (unlikely given the distance and the inefficiency of muggle ancient travel methods), they would have been able to point him in the right direction of the isle.

In Harry's opinion, there were two logical ways to go back. First, he could make his way through the desert, hoping to bump into the general area of the cave, which could have been buried by a sand storm; then he would need to dig the collapsed stone, figure out how to get down to the bottom now that he no longer had a broom. Once down there, he might be lucky to find runes he wouldn't understand at all. Or, there was path number two. He could try to go back to the place his home would be, go to a magical community that he knew where to find and ask for help from people that spoke archaic English.

Despite the first option being the most geographically close, going by the second would make the most sense and would have the most chance of success. For the time being, though, Harry needed to gather resources, information about the world and a map. To be able to communicate with the locals would be a logical first step in his agenda. Harry reasoned that spending time in this place was a must, since he needed to re-learn how much magic he needed to use for each spell; he also planned to find a teacher for sword fighting so he wouldn't need to rely solely on his magic, a thing he could do here since there were so many people with swords; not to mention that Harry would need resources for the long trip that he didn't currently have the funds to purchase (the little coin he had he would probably need to spend on the dragon's food bill). So earning money would be something to focus on after learning to communicate.

"I will call you Albion. Is Albion a name you like?" No response. Harry couldn't help feeling a little bit disappointed that the dragon remained uncaring. "Well, I think it's a rather fetching name. Anyway, I hope you are already well enough to hunt, Albion." The dragon tilted it's head. "Hunt, you know, food?"

As in response for Harry's inquire, Albion spread his wings, startling Harry, and started to move them up and down. The damage done to the dragon when escaping the cave seemed to be healed, thick, red scars shinning on its wings and body. The force of the take off made Harry fall on his posterior for a second time, and the stone it had used to propel itself gained more cracks than it already had.

"Wow," Harry breathed, the dragon got so far away in so little time the wizard could only barely see it despite its monumental bulk. He stood there being awed for a few moments before he heard his name being called.

Harry turned, then glared at the dwarf that sent him the horde of whores. Tyrion, who seemed to be about to say something, had his jaw drop in astonishment as he looked down at the Gryffindor emblem on Harry's chest. Harry frowned, he had assumed the banner of the founders wouldn't be famous here.

It was well known for Hogwarts' students that the the greatest school of magic of Great Britain was built in the 10th Century, and the four founding families' origin was not as precise, but the writer of "Hogwarts: A History" had assured that the emblems of the houses were born in the 7th century at the earliest. Which meant, and Harry was sure of this, that he was pushed into time at the earliest on the 7th Century.

In fact, if Harry was lucky enough, then Hogwarts was already built and the golden lion on top of a red and yellow field was recognized as a school affiliation.

"Gryffindor," Harry said simply, pointing to his chest.

The dwarf blinked, nodding as if Harry had given him enlightenment.

"Harry Gryffindor?" The dwarf asked.

'Oh... so he took it like that?', Harry thought disappointed. It would seem that the school was not built yet; which gave him the certainty he was now trapped between centuries seventh and tenth. Therefore, by seen the lion in Harry's chest he assumed Harry to belong to the family instead of being a student of a school yet to be founded. It made sense, but it was also a pity: getting help from whoever was the headmaster now would have been a good place to start.

Now there was the problem of clarifying the mix-up... only, Harry was still stumped by the language barrier, so he had no way of actually clarifying anything. But, no matter: Harry Potter had always been a Gryffindor (even if not in the sense the dwarf thought), so he didn't care enough to spend all day doing charades to explain the origin of the emblem on his chest; specially since Harry was only going to be in the past, let alone this city, for a short while before he went back home to meet his destiny. Harry shrugged. And so, in these distant lands, Harry Potter found himself re-baptized as Harry Gryffindor. He just hoped his new identity wouldn't come to bite him in the arse latter.

With his head held high and trying to display the confidence of a man who belonged to an ancient, powerful family, he waited for the dwarf to state his business. And God help Tyrion if he tried to do a repeat of last night's disaster; because, this time, Harry had a very big, very sharp sword, and he wouldn't hesitate to threaten his host with it.

Harry moved his hand to the pommel of the sword as he continued to glare at the smaller man. Tyrion, noticing this, rose his hands in a "I mean no harm" gesture. Harry nodded, and decided not to care for the fact the dwarf looked more interested in the emblem in his robes than the shiny sword embedded with rubies and gold on the handle, whose blade had a surface so sharp and reflective it seemed to glow with an inner light under the sun.

Harry made a mental note to get a scabbard for the sword instead of letting it dangle on his belt. After all, the sword was coated in Basilisk venom, and he would feel bad if someone died trying to steal it.

In the end, Harry decided to follow Tyrion instead of going around aimlessly to see if he could pick up some words. Before he actually got around to doing so, Harry felt a pull and his head moved towards the distance where his dragon could be seen, growing from the size of a pebble to that of a house, to that of a gigantic dragon. The dragon landed clumsily, almost smacking Harry's body with one of his wings. The wall of one of the closest buildings came down when the dragon miscalculated and Harry winced at the destruction, hoping the dragon was alright. The smell of blood wafted in the air and Harry worried that the dragon had re-opened a wound or gotten hurt while hunting. The dragon didn't seem to mind crashing hard enough to break rocks, but there was blood flowing like rivers from between his lips. Then, like a bird regurgitating food for it's chicks, the dragon vomited a slobbery and very bloody beheaded horse right at Harry's feet. The memory of the rats in the cave was triggered and he idly wondered if those had been dry because he had spent too long sleeping and the spit dried.

*GRMPHW* The dragon bumped the mangled horse corpse towards Harry. The message was clear. Harry almost groaned and eww-ed, but he had already decided he would act like a proper Gryffindor. He gave a step forwards and, deciding that if he was going to eat vomited meat he wouldn't eat it raw, concentrated really hard into the want to send fire to the meat. " _Incendio_ ," he chanted after a few minutes of concentration, Harry's wandless magic made a spark strong enough to light a candle but not much else... maybe he was aiming it too wide?

Harry looked down to the mangled half-chewed, probably even half-digested, horse, and noticed that there were several points in which the meat was all but falling into pieces. With a lot of bravery and a not a small amount of disgust, Harry dug his fingers into the bloody, slobbery horse meat, ripping a handful of it. Once he had done such a thing, he put the uneven blob of meat on the floor. " _Incendio_!" He commanded with a wave of his hand, and the magic lit the meat on fire until it was giving of a roasted smell. Harry smiled, feeling so much glee he simply forgot the piece had been in a dragon's stomach before.

He moved the food on its lips and took a bite, it tasted horrible: semi-raw inside and charbroiled on the outside. He ate the chunk anyway. He had survived eating worse, so the bacteria left in the animal were not something he felt like concerning himself with right then.

Harry could feel a feeling of pride not his own fill him and mix with Harry's sense of victory. It made sense, Harry knew, that if the dragon burnt its food he would be expected to do so, so maybe eating what it brought wouldn't be too bad in the future. It was nice to have people, er, someone be proud of you.

A cough broke the illusion of being alone in the world with Albion. Once again, Harry faced the dwarf. He had completely forgotten about him. Harry felt oddly offended to have Tyrion there at that moment, like he had ruined a really important milestone.

A few moments of unintelligible babble and insistent (if grandiose) pointing towards the door of the building Harry had been in the day before made it clear that the dwarf wanted him to follow. Now that the bonding moment had gone to waste and Harry had nothing to do, he followed Tyrion behind, trying to act Pureblood enough to keep his image of a Gryffindor, while not lowering himself down to the peacock-ish behavior of Draco Malfoy.

Harry was sure he was failing miserably.

...

A pair cold black eyes were following the dragon rider and the dwarf moving away from the plaza. A little beggar girl, with a dress so gritty it might never have gotten washed, had been watching intensely from behind her ragged midnight bangs. She stood up and moved fast on nimble feet. She avoided the Undying keeping people away from the plaza and its surroundings by passing through old, broken walls on paths only orphaned street rats dared moving through.

A few minutes later, the little girl was walking in a dark tunnel, the old torch in her hand almost too heavy for her short, bony fingers. The light of another torch came into view, carried by a man wearing a golden mask.

"He came out," she rasped with a dry throat as she looked up. The girl's coal eyes looked swollen and red-rimmed, the bags under them a clear sign she had gone without sleep for too long.

The man in the mask nodded, then threw a silver coin to the poor beggar. She hugged her treasure to her protruding ribs, dreams of bread and water dancing in her eyes. The sound of metal brushing fabric and the swish of wind were followed by a thud. The little girl's head rolled on the floor. The pool of blood leaking out of her two halves spread then drowned the flame of the torch that had rolled out of limp fingers.

The man with the golden mask walked away without turning back.

In the darkness of the old tunnel thousands of small feet moved towards the smell of blood and raw meet. The starving vermin in the place feasted, their hunger so fierce it left behind naught but bone and a single piece of silver that could have granted dreams of bread and water.

 _To be continued._

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 **AN:** I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. I had considered making a longer chapter to celebrate review 200, then deliver it on the usual date, but in the end I chose lenght consistency and faster speed over a longer chapter.

Edit 23-10-2016. I realized belatedly that I didn't speak about what is going to happen to the pairing. It is simple: I will be using the way the fic moves as a guide of who shall keep Harry's heart. I do not plan to make it a harem, Harry won't end up with more than one woman... despite of that, I do believe is completely possible to have a orgy with whores at some point or another, so there is that.

Thanks to everyone that pointed out the mistake of Harry using the poisonous sword as a knife as idiotic (none of you used that word because you are all darlings). As you might have noticed, I changed it.

 **Please review!** Your reviews inspire me and give me ideas for this fic.


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